


Shadows Lingering Close Behind

by StardustAndAsh



Series: Of the Rabbit and the Fox [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Backstory, Kidnapping, Lavellan Backstory expansion, M/M, Rite of Tranquility, Templars, The Hissing Wastes, almost, but explaining the non-dalish accent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardustAndAsh/pseuds/StardustAndAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan just wanted a break, and by break he means going to check on the Venatori activity in the Hissing Wastes. Being caught wasn't part of the plan. Nor was reliving some of the worst moments from his past.</p><p>Basically me trying to come up with a reason why Lavellan doesn't have the Dalish accent, and in the process reworking canon and getting him mixed up in yet another mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a very pretty arrangement of the FFIX theme "You're Not Alone" by Erutan. Y'all should check it out as it fits any otp you like from Dragon Age quite well. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmbgCBZ86z4

The Hissing Wastes. Why did he have to come out to the Hissing Wastes. There was nothing there, perhaps a few suspicious Venatori, but nothing of real consequence, nothing that really required the Inquisitor himself rather than a few Inquisition soldiers and scouts. Ëonwë had insisted on coming himself, after all, why ask someone to do a job you weren’t willing to do yourself. Also a way to get out of Skyhold and not have to deal with actually being the Inquisitor for a couple of weeks. Ëonwë had thought it was a great plan, nothing much out there, nothing much to worry about. Oh well, hindsight 20/20 and all that.  
It had started when reports came in, not one after the other but steady enough over a few months, of Venatori moving about in the Hissing Wastes. None of the scouts could report much of what was going on, as the Hissing Wastes are not pleasant, and surviving there takes a great deal of effort, more than Ëonwë realized at the time. The War Room meetings had been shadowed by the growing number of Venatori doing Creators knew what out in the endless sand and barren rock.

  
“I think I should head out there, see what the Venatori are up to,” said Ëonwë on one cold afternoon when Leliana and Josephine took a breather from their debate over how to handle the delicate Orlesian empire after the whole Halamshiral fiasco.

  
“Inquisitor, really, your time could be better spent elsewhere. I have heard there is a large vein of red lyrium and a growing number of red Templars on the Storm Coast. There have also been reports of Darkspawn in the area,” said Cullen, crossing his arms over his plate.

  
“No, I think I should see what the Venatori are up to. They are after all, under Calpernia and Corypheus directly. Its probably in our best interests to make sure that they’re not building some sort of magical weapon or doing some ancient blood magic out there,” said Ëonwë.

  
Ëonwë hoped the advisors would fall for it. He sounded reasonable enough, he hoped. How was he supposed to pretend to be so mature and a leader and all that when a little over six months ago he had just been Ëonwë of clan Lavellan and only beginning to learn his duties as First to Keeper Deshanna.  
Leliana looked contemplative, and so did Cullen. Excellent, two out of three. Well, four if he counted Morrigan, but Ëonwë placed very little on what the witch had to say. Trying to one up him on elvhen lore like Ëonwë wasn’t Dalish. Okay, maybe he hadn’t always been living in the clan, but he still had that knowledge. Josephine looked between the two and sighed. Ëonwë knew he had won.

  
“It might be a good idea. But you should be careful,” Cullen sighed and ran a hand through his wavy hair.

  
“When am I not?” Ëonwë grinned his crooked grin. Cullen gave him a reprimanding look.

  
“I will send my scouts ahead to set up a camp away from the eyes of the Venatori. Meanwhile, you should think about who should join you. It is best to get this out of the way quickly, be ready to leave in two days,” Leliana said, effectively ending the War Room session.

  
Ëonwë shivered in the cold breeze blowing through the hole in the wall. If they ever got around to fixing this one hallway in Skyhold it would be a miracle. As it was, it let the icy mountain air bite through his thin clothes and tousle his long golden hair. He had long since gotten used to the numbness in his overlarge ears from the cold that perpetually clung to the castle, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

  
The main hall of the castle was filled with nobles. Some dressed in the Orlesian fashion with those creepy masks whispered as he walked by. Ëonwë swore he heard at least one mention of Rabbit as he passed them, but forced himself to keep walking with his head held high. He didn’t understand why they would come here if they wanted to mock him. Surely the extravagant gardens and luxurious salons of Val Royeaux were a much more comfortable place to insult Ëonwë behind his back. Soon enough he reached the door to Leliana’s tower.

  
“Afternoon Sunshine,” called Varric from one of the long tables. He looked to be entrancing some new recruits with no doubt some far-fetched tale of Ëonwë’s grand adventures.

  
“Don’t tell them anything too outrageous Varric,” said Ëonwë in reply.

  
“Me? Never!”

  
Ëonwë grinned as he ducked through the doorway.

  
Solas’ study always gave Ëonwë the shivers though he didn’t quite understand why. Perhaps it was because Solas himself was odd, and some of the things he said put Ëonwë’s nerves on edge. Luckily the other elf wasn’t there, and Ëonwë made his way to the library without having to make nervous small talk.  
At the top of the stairs Ëonwë practically ran into just the man he was looking for.

  
“Vishante Kaffas!”

  
“Ow!”

  
Ëonwë’s nose bashed into leather and metal and then he was falling backwards into the curving wall, sliding down a few of the steps on his bruising bottom.  
Above, Dorian rubbed at his shoulder, having also fallen after their collision.

  
“I’m sorry. My fault,” said Ëonwë, checking to make sure he hadn’t bashed his nose hard enough to make it start bleeding.

  
“At least you didn’t hit me in my pretty face, then it would be a real tragedy.”

  
Dorian found his feet and offered an arm to Ëonwë. Once they were both standing Dorian shooed Ëonwë’s hands away from his nose in order to get a better look.

  
“I think you might get a bruise.”

  
“So my pretty face doesn’t matter?”

  
“Perish the thought, I am much aggrieved for your good looks. I do not know if they ever shall return. I don’t know if I can be with such a hideous elf,” said Dorian with his lovely smile. Ëonwë punched him, though lightly.

  
“So what prompted your mad dash up the stairs?”

  
“I was coming to see you actually,” said Ëonwë. “I’m going Venatori hunting in a few days and was wondering if you wanted to come with?”

  
Dorian only needed a moment to agree.

  
“You can’t pack heavy. We need to keep it light so we can get in and out as fast as possible. Leliana and Cullen both have other things they need me to do.”  
“One day they’re going to work you to death, just you wait and see.”

  
“That’s why I made them give me this little Venatori vacation.”

  
“Amatus, if this is your idea of a vacation then I should take you on a real one.”

  
The two parted with a quick kiss out of sight. Ëonwë wished it could be longer but he still had to notify Cassandra that he wanted her to join him on this venture, and decide who else should join them.


	2. Chapter 2

The dawn was bright and pale, no burst of colour rising through the sky but a harsh bright sun and a bitter wind. Few people were out in the courtyard as the Inquisitor’s party readied their mounts. Most were still abed or beginning the daily tasks inside. A few of Cullen’s soldiers were beginning their morning drills, some of the household staff were traversing the courtyard with laundry or steaming dishes in hand. It was all very quiet and mundane, just a normal day in Skyhold, no pomp and circumstance for the Inquisitor’s departure. Ëonwë breathed a sigh of relief. In the past the advisors had made every single action something to be celebrated, but in the recent weeks they had calmed their desire for the Inquisitor to be paraded about like some shiny trophy.

“We are all ready, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra, leading her great bay mare over to him. “Except for Cole.”

Cassandra still had yet to warm up to the boy. Ëonwë liked him though. He was the closest in age to himself and even though he sometimes said things that were meant to be a secret he was also the kindest person Ëonwë had ever met.

Currently, Cole was hovering around the base of a tree, reaching out and drawing back with gentle hands. His own horse, a small paint with a heart of gold, stood idly by with his reins trailing in the dirt. Ëonwë supposed the horse had become used to his rider’s strange habits. Ëonwë handed his reins over to Cassandra and approached Cole.

“What have you found, _da’lath’in_?” he asked.

“She wanted to fly, but her wings aren’t strong enough. I want to help her but I’m scared I might break her,” murmured Cole, gesturing at a small puff of feathers sitting in the weeds at the base of the tree.

“It’s all right Cole, you just need to be gentle. She’s stronger than she looks, and she needs help getting back home. Come on, that’s it.”

Ëonwë guided Cole’s hands down towards the little bird, who peeped at them loudly. Cole cradled the little bird to his chest, gently stroking it with one thin finger.

“Her home is so high. She should have waited to leave the nest until she was bigger.”

Ëonwë watched as Cole carefully climbed the tree, one hand still cradling the bird to his chest. The bird was placed back in the nest by careful hands, still peeping loudly, and Cole let himself drop back down.

“Why did she think she could fly?”

“Sometimes baby birds just fall out of their nests,” Ëonwë said. He knew Cole would try to figure it out. “It’s a lucky thing that sometimes we’re around to help them get back home.”

“Lucky,” Cole echoed.

Ëonwë smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder before reclaiming his horse from Cassandra. He wished he could take his hart on this adventure, but the animal wasn’t suited to trekking across the desert. Instead he was given a spirited black creature from Horse Master Dennet. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle a spirited mount, its that Ëonwë was rather small, and a horse was a lot bigger than the mounts he was used to.

Soon, they were all mounted up – Ëonwë was given a boost into the saddle by Dorian, who laughed when he saw his first failed attempt. The grate portcullis was raised, and they were off, riding down the snowy mountain paths.

The trip to the Hissing Wastes took about a week of long riding. By the time the party had reached the Western Approach the cold of Skyhold seemed like a lovely distant memory. When they actually reached the desolate desert of the Wastes it was like the heat was all they had ever known. The only one who wasn’t bothered by it was Cole, but Cole was, well, Cole. Ëonwë had even foregone cuddling up with Dorian the past few nights due to the heat. Instead he settled for falling asleep with their fingers entwined upon the bedrolls.

Their arrival in the Hissing Wastes was quiet. They rode into the Inquisition camp a short time after nightfall and were met by the ever-present scout Harding.

“I thought you wouldn’t arrive until later,” she remarked to the Inquisitor’s party.

“Later? What do you mean, it’s plenty late.”

“Here it’s too hot to do much of anything during the day, its kind of disorienting at first but we’ve noticed the Venatori being active through the night, so we just changed our schedules to match.”

“Smart, though tonight is going to wreck us,” said Dorian.

Ëonwë agreed.

They let the scouts present take the horses to be fed and rubbed down, allowing for Ëonwë to sit himself down next to the fire on a small rock and stretch out his aches from riding all dang day. He didn’t care if the rock was so low his long hair brushed through the sand below, but regretted it when he went to comb through it with his fingers.

Ëonwë already needed reminding as to why he thought this was a good idea. There was sand in his boots hand he was already sore and tired. Dorian gave him that smile that set his heart aflutter.

“Wouldn’t be any chance of some coffee out here would there?” asked Dorian. “If I’m expected to be awake through the night I should get a little help.”

One of the scouts dashed towards the supply tent and Dorian gave Ëonwë a wink.

“Good idea,” said Cassandra with a yawn.

Soon they all had steaming hot mugs in their hands and scout Harding was relaying them all the news. Creepy Venatori doing Creators knew what, a high dragon, lots and lots of empty sand, dwarven ruins, rifts all over the place. Ëonwë just nodded and hoped at least Cassandra was paying attention. Cole had wandered off to look out over the Wastes from the highest nearby rock, looking like some sort of sentinel statue. Ëonwë wished he could at least have a nap, but knew if he lay down for even a moment he would probably sleep through the night. The coffee was helping though.

“I say we start off by tackling some of these rifts, see if we can establish a camp a little closer to the Venatori,” declared Ëonwë once they had finished their drinks and washed out the mugs.

“We can just sit around for one night you know.”

“Don’t complain Dorian, we should start our work here as quickly as possible,” countered Cassandra.

“Listen to the Lady, _arasha_. The sooner we get going the sooner we get back,” said Ëonwë.

“One day I’ll learn what you call me in your elvhen tongue.”

“And one day I’ll learn Tevene just to spite you.”

It was the same banter every time. Ëonwë knew Dorian wouldn’t argue any more, though he might grumble about the sand.

All together they set off northward towards where the scouts had reported rift activity.

It hadn’t occurred to Ëonwë just how empty the Hissing Wastes could be. By the time the camp’s firelight had been swallowed up by the dark night they had yet to come across another living creature. He could make out the glittering flicker of distant firelight in the horizon, and that’s where Ëonwë was leading them. He hoped the rift would appear along the way.

Low and behold it did. The mark in his palm came to life with a painful crackling moments before the rift exploded into light and demons. Cassandra and Cole leapt forward with weapons flashing in the eerie green light. Ëonwë felt the heat from one of Dorian’s firey spells whoosh past his cheek and hit a rage demon that was about to pounce. The mark wanted to do what the mark did best, and Ëonwë let it, extending his left hand towards the rift and letting the strange magic flow forth.

It hurt, as it always did. It felt like the magic was being pulled from his chest, from his very soul, through too small veins in his arm and then burning the palm of his hand as it left him. But Ëonwë could do this. He’d felt this pain a hundred times before on his adventures, and no doubt he would feel it again. With a thunderous bang loud enough to wake the dead the rift vanished, leaving them all panting into the night.

“Are we all okay?” asked Ëonwë.

“I’m fine,” said Cassandra.

“I’m glad we stopped it,” said Cole.

“I want to go to sleep,” grumbled Dorian.

Ëonwë smiled. Everyone was okay. They may not be his clan, but all his friends, they were his family, his _lethal’linaan._ He would do anything for them. The sound of sheathing weapons surrounded him and he too fitted his staff back in its harness on his back. Only then did Ëonwë relax his guard. He tried to begin heading off to the closest set of lights, but a warm hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Wait,” said Dorian. “Let me take a look at that hand.”

“It’s not the time, I’ll worry about that when we get back to camp.”

“Amuse me, amatus. The Venatori can wait.”

Ëonwë looked over at Cassandra for help, but she simply nodded at him and gestured to let Dorian do what he wanted. Her face looked older in the moonlight, the scar down her cheek deepening in the shadows. It was like she was the embodiment of some fearsome warrior god waiting for a hero from legend to challenge her.

 Ëonwë let Dorian take his hand and gently wrap it in some spare cloth. He was unsurprised to see the faint blotches of blood blossoming over the fabric. He didn’t miss the concern that passed over Dorian’s face, and gently pulled back his hand before he could make further fuss over it. They still had a long night ahead, and they had better things to do than fret over things that couldn’t be fixed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da’lath’in - little heart. Meaning someone empathetic.  
> arasha - my happiness  
> lethal’linaan - plural form of lethal'lin, or blood kin (close friend/family). I at least hope its the plural form I tried my hand at translating.
> 
> the source for all this is the lovely FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they made it to the first Venatori encampment Ëonwë had slipped about a dozen times in the sand, sending him sprawling down a dune. Usually he was accompanied by Cole, who also had a hard time finding his footing in the slippery grains. Down they went, elf and spirit tumbling ass over staff and hat. After the first three times Cassandra and Dorian had given up on helping them, instead deciding that the sight of the Inquisitor and the rogue sliding down sand dunes was hilarious.

“I hope you’re very amused. Next trip I bring you on will be dragon hunting in the Emprise,” said Ëonwë as Dorian laughed his barking laugh.

Ëonwë bent and scooped Cole’s ridiculous hat out of the sand and handed it back to him.

“Thank you,” smiled Cole, fixing it back on his messy blonde hair.

“ _Sathem,_ _da’lath’in_ ,” said Ëonwë.

Ëonwë liked speaking elvhen with Cole, if for the fact that Cole understood what he was implying with that strange spirit magic of his. He hadn’t been able to speak his mother tongue with much of anyone lately. Sera didn’t speak a word, and frankly, Solas frightened him, and there was no one to send letters to since the clan…. Ëonwë stopped that train of thought right there. It was best not to dwell on it. He couldn’t help what happened to his clan. As much as he wished he could go back and change the past. All he had now was the final letter from Keeper Deshanna. He didn’t even know if she still lived. He missed her. He missed his mamae and babae as well. Keeper Deshanna hadn’t said if they had survived the destruction of the clan. Ëonwë could only hope they had.

“Worry. Am I the only one left? Home is calling. I can’t go but I must go.”

Ëonwë threw an arm around Cole’s shoulder and shushed him before Cassandra and Dorian could hear what he was saying. Cole may have been becoming more human but that didn’t stop him from sometimes blurting out the inner thoughts of those around him.

“It’s fine, _da’lath’in_ , I am fine,” Ëonwë said quietly into Cole’s ear.

He led them back up the dune, making sure Cole didn’t go tumbling backwards when he slipped again. Eventually he got them both back to their companions. Dorian’s laughter had subsided but he and Cassandra still had grins on their faces that made Ëonwë want to smack them. Muttering curses under his breath Ëonwë began once again leading them towards the first of the Venatori camps.

The Venatori were well set up. There were tents and long tables where research materials were laid out. The Venatori themselves looked to be investigating a strange set of ruins: a gateway set into the sand. What were they after? Ëonwë crept closer, ears straining for any hint of conversation. The Venatori were silent. The one closest to Ëonwë was a mage pouring over an ancient book. Beyond that there was one stirring a pot over a fire and another doing a lookout round on the other side of the campsite. For a few seconds there was no sound but the rustle of pages and the flap of canvas in the gentle breeze. Then Ëonwë saw a thing from his nightmares. Off to the side, outside of the ring of tents, was a slave cage. What’s worse was that the cage was empty. There was no one to capture and tear away from their families out here in the Hissing Wastes, so that meant slaves had been brought. But if he couldn’t see them then they were probably dead. No one should have to endure those cages, whether at Templar or Venatori hands. With a yell of rage Ëonwë launched himself over the table, startling his companions as much as the Venatori he was attacking.

He grabbed the closes Venatori around the neck and slammed him into the ground, the other hand wielding his staff in a deadly barrage of electricity, paralyzing the others. He released the man beneath him, but only for a moment. Before the man had time to even think about backing away Ëonwë had drawn his knife and stabbed him through the heart. Blood bubbled at the corner of the man’s mouth, and fear filled eyes were visible beneath the dark hood. Ëonwë smiled as the man gurgled on his last breath.

He tore his knife out of the dead man’s chest with a vicious twist and cleaned it on his robes. Not like the dead would care much anyway. Cole and Cassandra had made quick work of the other two, the bodies now lay at their feet and their weapons were bloody in hand. Cole was looking at Ëonwë curiously, but he wasn’t saying anything. Maybe he was learning. More than likely he was instead trying to figure out the jumble of emotions going on inside the elf. Ëonwë himself wasn’t even sure.

“Ah yes, killing my countrymen always soothes the soul. One less blood mage to worry about and all that,” Dorian strode up to the table and snatched up the book. “This could be useful.”

“We must figure out what they are doing here,” stated Cassandra, toeing one of the bodies with a disgusted grimace.

“Nothing good, I can promise you that. Where did the slaves go, after all?” Ëonwë wandered over to the cage.

There was blood on the bars of the door like someone had cut their hands on it in a desperate attempt to free themselves from whatever fate the Venatori gave them. In the firelight it could almost be mistaken for rust, but Ëonwë knew better.  He sighed, then spotted something glittering at the back of the cage.

“Cole, come here. I need you to open this.”

The lock was thick and heavy. It seemed pointless to Ëonwë, locking a door when there was no reason to. Cole had it off in a heartbeat though and Ëonwë clambered in, shuddering. He grabbed the glittery and got out before his brain could catch up to where he had been.

Ëonwë opened his hand to reveal a small halla pendant, worked in bronze and hanging on a leather thong. It was no doubt Dalish in origin. It reminded him of an apprentice amulet. No doubt for a _halla’amelan_ , He held it tight, shaking. These weren’t slaves brought from the Imperium then. These were people who were captured along the paths here.

“Amatus, what did you find?” Dorian’s voice was gentle. Ëonwë opened his hand to show him.

“It’s a totem. Made for an apprentice,” said Ëonwë. He choked down his emotion and schooled his features once more. His own totem, the symbol of Clan Lavellan, a deer with a full set of antlers, hung heavy on his chest beneath his clothes.

“Ah,” said Dorian, for there was really nothing else to say.

Ëonwë pocketed the totem. Maybe he could return it to the clan the poor soul had come from. It was the least he could do. Perhaps Leliana could look into it.

“Come on, we should see what they wanted here,” said Ëonwë.

The others followed as he le them to the opening of the ruins. Underground it was almost cool enough to be considered cold, like the Hinterlands in winter. The walls were set stone, and surprisingly dwarven in looks, though like no dwarven ruins Ëonwë had ever seen before. Not that he’d seen a lot.

The air was colder in the ruins. It was hard to tell from the years the structure had spent beneath the sand, but it seemed too close to the surface. Most of the dwarven ruins he had seen were built miles beneath the surface, with long roads leading down through solid rock. This was too small for that, almost like a separate structure built just for, well, whatever purpose it was built for.

Ëonwë led them down into the first chamber. There were braziers, an odd number of them, too many by Ëonwë’s standards. Then again, he didn’t know a lot about them. Solas would, but the other elf remained at Skyhold, researching ancient elvhen artifacts in hopes to find something that might help against Corypheus. So it was up to him to figure out what was happening here.

They entered the room cautiously. There were four large pillars around a short dais. All four had both braziers and large stone slabs attached to them. The slabs were carved, in runes that took Ëonwë a moment to figure out. They were an old language, but lucky for him the Inquisition thought it best to stock the library with ancient books. Best to read ancient things when your biggest enemy was ancient himself. Before doing anything else Ëonwë lit a torch with the strange blue fire. It whispered to him as usual, sending shivers down his spine. Then he went up to the first slab.

It made no sense, it was a fragment of a sentence. The next slab made just as much sense as the last.

“It’s a puzzle,” he said to himself.

“Well, leave it to me then, reading to solve a puzzle is right up my alley,” said Dorian with a grin.

Dorian strode up to the closet column, flourishing his wrists. It was clear he was about to make a dramatic show of this, but Ëonwë was going over the fragments in his head. They weren’t just random fragments, they fit together to tell the beginning of a story. If the person who built this had any sense it would be logical for the puzzle to be lighting the braziers in the order of the story fragments. Before Dorian could so much as say the bit off the first slab Ëonwë had lit his first brazier and was dashing to the next.

“Or you could do it,” Dorian sounded put out, but there was an amused smile on his face.

“I think I understand it. We’ll see if I’m right.”

Ëonwë brushed past Cassandra on his way to the third pillar. She chuckled in amusement as she watched his antics. Cole was investigating an old urn in the corner. No doubt looting it for anything shiny or amusing.

“You seem like you have it under control,” said Cassandra.

It was weird to think that six months ago Ëonwë had been at her mercy, chained up in a prison cell as the sky ripped open. Cassandra had been ready to kill him then. She had been moments away from slashing him through the heart for killing her Divine. It took weeks for Ëonwë to convince Cassandra that he meant no harm, that he wasn’t some crazy elf who had planned the murder of hundreds at the conclave. She probably hadn’t really believed it until she saw Ëonwë face down Corypheus and his pet archdemon. She probably only truly started believing in him after he buried Haven and himself under a mountain. There’s something about coming back from apparent death that inspires people to belive in you, no matter that Ëonwë nearly died again even after finding the remnants of the Inquisition hiding in the Frostbacks. It was strange to think that Cassandra would become one of his closest companions, his own _lovro’mae_. He couldn’t think of anyone else in the Inquisition he trusted more, aside from Dorian. People were weird, and the bonds between them made no sense. But here they were, in a dark ancient dwarven structure that likely hadn’t seen inhabitants in five hundred years, all because Ëonwë and the rest had been thrown together by a random chance.

There was a shrieking whoosh and a door at the opposite end of the room burst open.

“I think our mighty leader has solved the puzzle,” said Dorian, clapping him on the back and kissing him on the cheek.

“You doubted me?” Ëonwë teased.

“Not for a second. Shall we see what lies within?”

Inside there was some sort of altar. A memorial perhaps? A few odd items were strewn about, and a curious twisting piece of metal that Cole thought to pocket.

“The Venatori wanted to get in here, but I don’t think this was their main goal.”

“It must be part of something else. Maybe they’re looking for a specific ruin out here,” replied Cassandra.

“We should see what it is they’re after,” Ëonwë nodded.

Together the group made their way back out of the ruin to the sandy surface. The sun was just peeking over the edge of the horizon, sending the sky into a bright yellow dawn and lighting the sand like fire. The Venatori camp was still a bloody mess from their fight earlier, but just beyond was a good sized rock they could pitch their tents behind to hide from the sun’s heat. Ëonwë led them over and began pitching his tent. Not a bad location, he thought he should inform the scouts so they could set up a more permanent campsite here. They were all exhausted, and their set up was probably the fastest Ëonwë had ever seen. Before the sun rose it’s first hour they were all sound asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sathem - Informal you're welcome.  
> Iovro’mae - Mama bear. 
> 
> Having two ongoing stories at once? During final paper month? I must be crazy!!!


	4. Chapter 4

It was hard to sleep through the hottest part of the day, but somehow they managed. Ëonwë woke several times to the sun glaring through the folds of their tent and hot sticky sweat dripping uncomfortably down his body. Whenever he woke Dorian was still sleeping soundly beside him and the gentle sound of his lover’s breathing was enough to lull him back to sleep. The evening dawned blissfully cool and it was a welcome relief to crawl out of their tents into the last rays of sunlight.

“When this is done we’ll all be as pale as you and Cole, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra.

Ëonwë grinned at her.

“Lady Cassandra the people would write sonnets comparing your skin to moonlight. Or they would tell horrors about how your scars grow more menacing each day,” he countered.

“Oh really? Menacing?” said Cassandra with a dangerous grin.

“I could think of a few other words, but none seem as polite,” said Ëonwë.

Dorian chuckled at their antics while dismembering the tent. He’d gotten much faster at taking down a campsite whereas when he had joined the inquisition he didn’t even know how to begin going about the job. Now he was practically an expert at ‘roughing it’. Dorian had been quite intent on learning how to do all those trivial tasks he’d never learned in order that nobody could say he was not pulling his own weight. One too many comments about being a spoiled noble, a spoiled _Tevinter_ noble, had set him off into a rage of learning that ended in a trip to the healers. Ëonwë figured he should help in taking down the camp as well. It was after all his fault they were all out here.

Camp was packed away in record time. Soon they stood ready to face whatever wickedness the desert might throw their way. Cole took point, vanishing into the dunes in order to creep along like a stealthy guardian spirit. Which Ëonwë supposed he was. Cole had saved his life before, back when he recruited the Templars to the Inquisition for Cullen and Cassandra. It had gone against every fibre of his being to side with Templars of all people, but Cassandra had been pleased, and really at that point he was still trying to make sure she didn’t decide to decapitate him. So Templars it was, even though every time one came to close to him he still flinched and felt sick. As the Inquisitor he was expected to mingle with his followers, but not with all of them, and he avoided the Templars as much as he could.

Ëonwë kept one eye out for the familiar brim of Cole’s hat as they made their way towards the next set of Venatori lights. Every so often he lost sight of him as Cole slipped once again.  When they approached the next camp Ëonwë signaled for Cole to come join them. This sight was no different than the last, if a bit tricky to get to around the giant canyon whose hidden edge had nearly sent them all tumbling down to its dark bottom.

The lights from the Venatori camp flickered across the sand sending long shadows dancing like hands outstretched to grab at Ëonwë’s ankles. He swallowed, almost feeling the weight of that shadow. Or was it the weight of the lives he was about to take. Either way, his legs felt like they were filled with lead. Shaking his head and the feelings away before Cole would say them to Dorian and Cassandra, Ëonwë unhooked his staff and made his way forward, creeping around the rough stone pillars that jutted up from the sand like broken teeth. The cold sound of metal being drawn indicated that both Cassandra and Cole had drawn their weapons as well. This time Ëonwë controlled himself, remaining hidden until the last second, where he released his bolts of lighting to paralyze the Venatori while Cole leapt out of the shadows and slit the throat of the strongest looking of the bunch. The rest were dispatched in short order as well. By the time they had wiped the blood off their weapons and bodies the moon had started her ascent into the sky.

“We should see if there’s another ruin nearby. It might prove our theory about why the Venatori are out here,” said Ëonwë.

“Amatus, we just finished our most noble slaughter, we could at least take a breather before we get going. One day you’re going to work yourself to death.”

“I’m sure I’ll keep working even after I die. A Herald of Andraste? I’m sure they’ll be finding new tasks for me to have preformed long into the future,” Ëonwë wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“Doubtless they will remember you well Inquisitor. But we can’t have you dying on us just yet,” said Cassandra.

Of course, thought Ëonwë.

“If we’re done discussing my inevitable demise, I can see some lanterns down to the south,” said Ëonwë. “Just there, on the top of that ridge.”

Cassandra and Dorian looked about trying to find where Ëonwë was talking about. It was a far ridge, with a few errant dust clouds blocking the view every so often.

“It’s there, up so high. They point to the sky but dig in the earth. Softer there,” said Cole quietly. He gestured with one bony hand towards the distant firelight.

“More creepy ruins and puzzles? I’m game,” said Dorian. “Say, if I solve the riddle at this one before you, will you allow me the dance of the ten silk scarves?”

Ëonwë felt his large ears go red and the heat creep up his neck. Did Dorian have to look at him like that right now? Did he have to say all these things in front of Cassandra, who would probably order Varric to include it in his novelization of his life. Ëonwë willed the blush to fade. The only way to survive this was to counter and play Dorian’s game.

“But if I solve it first what do I get?” Ëonwë played up his pouting, glad that the night hid the last traces of redness in his face. “Do I get to…”

Dorian’s breath hitched as Ëonwë leaned in close to his ear, soft lips tickling as the elf whispered sweet fantasies into his ear in a low, breathy rumble. Ëonwë let one finger trail down the side of Dorian’s neck as he spoke, doing his best to make his _arasha_ blush. Eye for an eye and all that human nonsense.  When he finally pulled away Dorian did indeed look uncomfortable and flushed. So did Cassandra, but whenever she saw the two of them together she seemed torn between tearing Dorian apart limb from limb and being excited that they were living a romance like one of her storybooks. Ëonwë wished he could have seen the threats Dorian received after they made their relationship public to the inner circle. Hell, Iron Bull probably took him to the tavern and given advice on how to do all those kinky things he liked.

“What did that mean?” asked Cole.

All of them went red.

“Never mind that, we should set about seeing what the Venatori are after,” coughed out Cassandra.

They at once set out at a brisk pace set by the Seeker. She led them quickly over the dunes towards the distant rock. Cole followed at her heels, leaving the mages to bring up the rear. Ëonwë was glad for this and kept Dorian’s hand in his own the whole way, even if for the most part it served as support.

They found the ruins quickly, and this time Ëonwë made a mistake in the order of the story, accidentally summoning a swarm of demons. He barely managed to dodge a rage demon before Cassandra slashed it through, but other than that there were no mishaps to this. Dorian smiled and took over the riddle solving. In protest Ëonwë sat himself down on a nearby stone and made a show of acting disinterested and pouty.  In no time at all the tomb was opened and there Ëonwë discovered yet another strange twist of metal.

They made their way back to the Venatori camp, sure that they had settled so far away because they had picked the spot to be closer to another of the ruins or tombs or whatever the dwarven structures were. Along the way Cassandra pointed out a place for a logging camp so the Inquisition would have a source of the rare desert wood. That done they descended into the canyon.

It only took a few paces for the stone walls to soar high above their heads. The rough walls were narrow, forcing them to go single file at some spots. True darkness descended upon them. The bright moonlight that lit their way across the sands was absent in the rocky canyon. Above only a few stars twinkled down at them, seeming so very distant and lonely. It reminded Ëonwë of being in the fade, feeling so detached from the real world. He had to pinch himself to remember that yes, he was in the real world and not trapped in an unending nightmare.

“Closed in, its so far away. How can I know its real? It is real but its too distant. I want to see the stars again,” murmured Cole, audible to everyone in the dim quiet of the canyon.

“Cole?” asked Dorian. “Are you all right?”

“Not me, though I don’t like it either.”

“It’s me. Being down here feels a bit like being back in the fade, what with the sky being so far away,” said Ëonwë offhandedly. There was no point in making a fuss, they had to search the canyon anyway, it didn’t matter if it made him a bit uncomfortable in the meantime.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Ëonwë shifted from foot to foot, waiting for one of them to say something or move on. Warm fingers gently grasped at his sleeve before trailing down to grasp his hand.

“Why are we just stumbling around in the dark down here?” Dorian lit his palm aflame in veilfire, casting green shadows on the canyon walls but loosening the pit of anxiety in Ëonwë’s chest.

“Thank you,” said Ëonwë, taking a firmer hold of Dorian’s hand. Dorian brought them to his lips and kissed Ëonwë’s.

“For you, anything. Though I’m still holding you to our earlier wager,” said Dorian with a wink.

They found the next ruin in no time at all. Inside the puzzle was much the same, though Ëonwë got the pleasure of solving it before Dorian. They did this several times, following the Venatori lights to their camp, shutting them down, then finding the ruin and a strange puzzle. Ëonwë had kept an eye out for the weird metal bits and could now see they fit together to make something. Perhaps this was what the Venatori were after. The next set of lights that they could see were coming from high up atop a strangely shaped set of mountains. They were marked out on the map by Scout Harding as the Sunstop mountains, as Cassandra pointed out to a disinterested audience.

It took them several tries to find a usable path to get up to the summit and the lights. The first few attempts had Ëonwë scrambling up the bare rock like a mountain goat while the others simply waited for the inevitable moment where he would be too short to reach the next ledge. It happened often enough were he would try to take the most direct route up mountains and be thwarted by his elfin stature.

Cole was the one who found the true path up the mountain, steep as it was. Their calves were burning by the time they reached the top of the mountains and the source of the lights. The Venatori definitely had been at work here. There was a large wooden scaffold built onto the side of the mountain with many platforms and ladders. Torches burned, but there was no one that they could see. In the distance they could see the bright light of a campfire, as well as tents. The Venatori must have been settling down after a night spent trying to break into the ruins. Cautiously Ëonwë led them tiptoeing across the scaffold, pausing whenever someone made the wooden boards creak.

They attacked in the same fashion as before, Ëonwë biting down a swell of rage when he saw the slave cage here as well. Things were going smoothly here, a couple Venatori already meeting their end through blade and magic combined. Dorian had danced around to the other side of the camp to get a better vantage on a man with a very large shield who was giving Cassandra a bit of trouble.

Ëonwë could taste another easy victory. The lightning flew from his staff with ease as they systematically took down the Venatori. He sent a bolt at a mage who was attempting to cast a spell on an unsuspecting Cole, but forgot to watch his own back. Behind him a rogue appeared in a puff of black smoke. Ëonwë didn’t notice until it was too late and the feeling of cold iron circled around his throat.

The effect was instantaneous. The magic bubbling through Ëonwë was cut off, the lightning dying on his fingertips as cold metal bit deep into his neck. A mage collar. They had gotten him with a fucking mage collar. He would have yelled for help but the collar was so tight it was cutting into his windpipe. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not again. The feel of being cut off from his magic was so hauntingly familiar and instantly Ëonwë felt like he was eleven again, in the forest with the big Templars standing over him and laughing as he cried.

Cole, ever perceptive, noticed first. He made a move away from the mage he was fighting to help, but the mage caught him in a binding spell. The others noticed when the rogue who had collared Ëonwë kicked his knees out and forced him to kneel in the sand. The man had one hand firmly gripped in Ëonwë’s long hair, forcing his head back and holding a blade to his throat.

The man spoke a demand in Tevene but the meaning was clear: drop your weapons. Ëonwë hoped they wouldn’t do anything rash. Acting out would get them killed and he couldn’t have that kind of blood on his hands again. Relief washed over him as knives, sword and shield, and staff fell into the sand with soft thumps. The man viciously twisted the hand in Ëonwë’s hair and said something else. Dorian responded quickly, he was nervous.

Then, as if to make matters worse, the mark in Ëonwë’s hand flared to life with a crackle of energy. It was as though it was fighting back against the collar, or fighting to be free of someone with no magic. Either way it brought Ëonwë a great deal of pain and attention. The remaining Venatori spoke excitedly amongst themselves, but Ëonwë could make out their repetition of the word ‘Inquisitor’. Ëonwë felt the blade leave his neck. They knew exactly who they had at their mercy.

Then Dorian stood and slashed at the nearest with his boot knife, the one with the whittled fox handle that Ëonwë had made for him. Cassandra followed only a second behind with Cole, all three rising to lash out at their captors. A pit of dread opened up in Ëonwë. This was how it had happened before. She had tried to fight and free him in the Templars moment of distraction but it hadn’t worked. His companions were caught by the mage’s powerful binding spell.

The man holding him barked something to the mage and began dragging Ëonwë backwards by his hair. Ëonwë tried to claw at the man, dig his heels into the dirt, anything to get back to his companions, his friends, his _arasha._ He hardly felt another set of hands restraining him. He had to get back before they could do anything.

“Dorian!” his voice was too quiet, wheezing past the collar. “Dorian, __a_ _r lath 'ma vhen'an__ _!”_

Dorian didn’t appear to have heard him. None of his companions could so much as twitch under the force of the bind. Cassandra was going red in the face from fighting it. Ëonwë struggled as the hands lifted him into the slave cage. The familiar barred door was shut behind him, slamming down on his fingers, and the sound of the key in the lock was akin to the sound of the hangman’s boots.

It couldn’t be happening again. Not now. Ëonwë looked back towards his companions. He was just in time to see the mage use force magic to blast them all over the edge of the mountain to the darkness below.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ar lath 'ma vhen'an- i love you my heart.
> 
> well, for anyone actually following this, sorry about all the delay. you'd think reading week would be a good chance to write, but nah. I did finally get a new computer to replace my dying one though.


	5. Chapter 5

The cage rattled and rocked in the sand. The wheels skittered in the grains and would from time to time get stuck fast in a deep dune. The Venatori didn’t stop for the break of day and the sun grew hotter and brighter as it wore on. There was no shelter from the sun inside the slave cage, no patch of shade to hide in nor any offer of water from the men walking alongside in the shade it produced.

Ëonwë was exhausted but could not sleep. His throat felt like it matched the desert around him and he knew that his ears and face were burned red. His ears may have even started to blister, but he didn’t quite feel like touching them to check. The mark on his hand hissed angrily, spitting green light and sending bolts of pain up his arm. The iron mage collar around Ëonwë’s neck bit harshly into his skin and the lack of magic was an empty pit inside him. If that was how all non-mages felt then Ëonwë pitied them for feeling so hollow, so incomplete. This was the second time he had been so restrained and caged and it was no better than the first. Perhaps history was doomed to repeat, in his case anyway. His thoughts lingered over the fate of Cassandra, Cole, and Dorian. Mostly Dorian. They had been blasted right off the top of the Sunstop Mountains and could be lying dead in a broken, bloody mess.

Ëonwë wanted to believe in them. In their strength. These were fighters, not an eleven-year-old girl with a stick and overconfidence against three grown Templars. She had died a broken and bloody mess, a mess that haunted his nightmares and his heart.  And now so were his most trusted companions doomed to join her in the eternal sleep for the crime of trying to protect him. He had told them before that he wasn’t worth all the fuss. Ëonwë was just an elf who had, as Varric put it, divine bad luck. He didn’t want to be the leader of the Inquisition, he just wanted to help do what he could, close the rifts, and go back to what was left of his clan. The fate of the world shouldn’t be literally in the hands of a twenty-one-year-old elf, especially one as unimportant as himself.

The desert seemed endless in the hot sun, waves of heat making the horizon wobble like the image in a waterfall’s pool. The floor of the cage burned Ëonwë’s skin where it was exposed against the metal and wood. What he wouldn’t give for shade and water. The sun had reached its peak before the Venatori paused their forward march. The cage stopped rolling with a jolt, sending Ëonwë sprawling. His head banged against the metal bars painfully. The Venatori laughed at his pain, pointing their fingers and taunting him in their strange language. Strange how the tongue could sound so sweet from Dorian’s lips, but from these men it sounded like the most horrific language in Thedas. These men could make him believe the stories of the cruelties of Tevinter.

One of the men slammed a mailed arm into the bars of the cage, making Ëonwë jump. The rest of them began uproariously laughing. Ëonwë growled.

“The Inquisitor is not so tough after all,” said the one who slammed his fist into the cage. His accent was so thick it took Ëonwë a moment to process he was speaking the common tongue.

The man leered at him. He leaned right up against the bars of the cage to give him the once over. Dark hair curled in sweat at the man’s temples beneath his pointed hood. Equally dark eyes lingered on Ëonwë’s soft mouth and thin legs as the man’s lips split into a grin. Stomach rolling in revulsion, Ëonwë reached into his boot and felt the hilt of his knife. They hadn’t searched him for weapons other than his staff, thank the Creators. Without too much movement he drew the knife into his hand.

“Hey Inquisitor, are you a girl or a boy? Its so hard to tell with you elves,” the man laughed. Ëonwë flushed and gripped his knife.

“ _Nuva fen’harel pala masa sule’din_ ,” spat Ëonwë, jumping forwards and digging his knife into the man’s dark eye. The other went wide in surprise before he dropped bonelessly into the sand with a soft thump. With blood staining his hand triumph flared in Ëonwë’s gut.

Unfortunately, the dead man took Ëonwë’s knife with him. The other Venatori sprang into action at the fall of their comrade. They jumped to their feet almost as one and all converged on the cage. Ëonwë felt a trickle of fear slowly replace the triumphant feeling, suddenly all too aware of the fact that he was now weaponless. Maybe he should have taken up Bull’s offer of teaching him the art of fighting skin to skin. Then again he had been terrified that Iron Bull might accidentally tear his arm off. That had been before he had gotten to know that the Qunari was a just a giant mother hen.

The force mage threw him against the side of the cage with so much magic it tipped onto two wheels. The slam of Ëonwë’s head against the bars made his eyes blur and his thoughts stop. Pain blossomed across his head and shoulders. By the time Ëonwë regained awareness of his surroundings the Venatori had shackled his wrists and ankles with heavy manacles. The one who had chained him stood back and admired his work. Apparently unsatisfied with what he saw, he gave Ëonwë a swift kick in the ribs. Stars burst in front of his eyes and Ëonwë swore that something in his chest audibly snapped. Breathing was suddenly a lot harder. Ëonwë gasped at the hot dry air, desperate to fill his lungs, as the Venatori angrily yelled something in Tevene. Probably some claim of retribution for the man he had just killed.

Then they began speaking once again in their mother tongues. They kept gesturing from Ëonwë to the dead man. The mage looked like he might cry whenever the conversation drifted back to the dead man. Good, let him taste Ëonwë’s pain. The Venatori came to some sort of conclusion amongst themselves, and the mage stepped towards him with a knife in his hand. That was not a good sign. Ëonwë backed up as much as he could with his bound hands and feet, only ending up shuffling back a few centimeters before the mage was upon him. The knife glinted in the sun as the mage brought it slashing down. Eyes clamped shut, Ëonwë braced himself for the pain of it stabbing into him, but instead of the overwhelming pain of being stabbed there was a thin line of ice drawn down his chest. Opening one golden eye he looked down to see that the mage had only sliced through his robe, the point of the knife had grazed him, leaving a thin trail of blood trickling down his chest.

Oh no. Ëonwë froze as the mage continued to slice through his clothes, peeling them away to reveal his pale skin. This was the kind of thing Keeper Deshanna used to warn him about. That his parents used to warn him about. That the Templars and the man he had just killed threatened him with. Ëonwë never thought it would happen. The possibility was always there but it seemed so far off, like a scary story his parents used to tell to keep Ëonwë and his sister from wandering away from the fire at night. By the time Ëonwë’s mind caught up with the situation his shirt and outer robe were gone and the mage was bringing the knife to the waist of his pants.

“No!” Ëonwë cried, struggling as much as he could.

It accomplished nothing aside from causing the knife to bite deep into his hip. The mage held him down with a strong hand. Another of the Venatori came to assist, gauntleted hands clamping tight around Ëonwë’s waist. Within another minute his pants were gone and Ëonwë was naked in the cage in front of the three remaining Venatori. Ëonwë curled up as much as he could, letting his long hair fall in front of his face as a mock curtain between him and his captors. It would come any minute now. They would take it in turns to force themselves on him while the others jeered and laughed. A few lone tears leaked from the corner of Ëonwë’s eyes, stinging as they passed over his sunburnt cheeks. He waited for the first. And waited. And waited.

Confused, Ëonwë looked up in time to see the cage door closing and the key once more being turned in the lock. Why would they strip him and just leave him? Ëonwë had been sure that he would be raped by these men, but they hadn’t touched him. Why?

The mage saw the confusion on his face and laughed.

“Our Magistra Calpernia would like to speak to you. She does not particularly care in what condition you are brought to her though,” said the mage with a barking laugh.

So it was to be the slow torture of being exposed to the elements. Ëonwë figured it to be a lazy sort of torture, but nonetheless a frightening one. His ears were already painfully blistered from exposure, no doubt soon even the most sensitive parts of his body would follow suit. Good, it would distract him from thinking of his companions crumpled and bloody at the bottom of some rocky cliff. Stop him from thinking about how Dorian had tried to save him, how his sister had tried to save him. This, this was why he had stopped letting people get so close. They forgot that their own lives were worth a hundred of his and threw them away for nothing.

Ëonwë hardly noticed when the cage began to rattle on once more. He didn’t notice the bump and grind of the wheels against the sand. Neither did he notice the body left behind to the mercy of the desert, knife still embedded in his eye, and the mage who kept glancing back at the shrinking shape of it. Ëonwë did not even notice the mage staring daggers at Ëonwë with eyes that promised revenge.

***

Dorian awoke slowly to the worst hangover of his life. Had he challenged the Iron Bull to another drinking competition? Had it been against his whole company as well? Maker his head hurt something fierce. He groaned and tried to roll over. Tried. Apparently he’d forgotten he also challenged the entire tavern to a brawl that he utterly and spectacularly lost.

“Dorian, can you hear me?” said a voice. Cassandra, his mind supplied. He’d only heard her sound so concerned once before, a long time ago, when Lavellan had stumbled out of the snowstorm and into the Inquisition’s waiting arms. Cullen’s arms, if he remembered correctly, but he had only joined up with them a mere day before and was still trying to process the destruction of Haven at that point. Where was he again?

“Dorian, please, say something,” Cassandra was pleading with him.

“Neegh,” said Dorian. He’d tried saying hello, but apparently his mouth hadn’t quite gotten the memo.

God he hurt. Had he fought the entirety of Skyhold or had he fallen off the battlements in a stupor. It was hard to say.

“He doesn’t know, he doesn’t remember. We’re at home, but home isn’t here,” that voice was Cole, but what didn’t Dorian remember?

“That doesn’t sound like good news,” said Cassandra.

Something was patting his face gently. Like the tomcat the cook was always chasing out of the kitchens. Dorian raised a hand to swat it away, but met a gloved hand not a furred paw.

The surprise was enough to make him open his eyes. The immediate pain was full of regret for that action. Sunlight burned into his eyes and Dorian slammed them shut as fast as possible.

“Fasta vass!”

“Good, I was afraid the fall had caused your poor brain more damage,” deadpanned Cassandra.

Dorian thought that joke very rude indeed, but also couldn’t quite find the energy to do anything about it. Instead he let out a groan. Now that he was aware of it the sun burned against his eyelids uncomfortably. A moment later something dark passed between the sun and himself, and Dorian relaxed in the blissful blackness.

“No going back to sleep. We must find help,” said Cassandra, gently shaking Dorian –he belatedly realized he was lying in her lap.

Dorian opened his eyes once more. This time the sun didn’t burn his eyes, but he was also startled at the close proximity of both Cole and Cassandra. It took a moment for Dorian’s eyes to adjust to the world around him. He was lying with his head in Cassandra’s lap, but the rest of him was lying in sand. Where on the Maker damned planet were they? Dorian gave the once over to his companions, noting the dried blood on Cassanra’s temple and the way Cole was cradling his arm. Something had happened. Something bad. Venhedis, could they go on one adventure without the lot of them being laid up in the infirmary? Something was missing though, or someone. Dorian nearly head-butted Cassandra on the nose when he realized just who was missing.

“Lavellan, where is he?” asked Dorian, frantic as he looked about.

There was nothing but sand and rock and distant scrub for miles. The three of them seemed to be at the bottom of a very tall cliff on a small mountain. A few feet away was a bloody rock, no doubt where Cassandra had hit her head. They must have fallen then, from up atop the very tall cliff. Joy, Dorian probably had a concussion if he couldn’t remember it. But where was his amatus? Lavellan was always there, always the first one to check on everyone else and get them organized again.

“You don’t remember?” asked Cassandra, voice still soft and hesitant. It was so unlike her Dorian began to feel worry grow.

“He remembers being home. I can make people forget, but I can’t make them remember,” said Cole.

“I don’t even know where we are, but that doesn’t matter. Where is our Inquisitor?” demanded Dorian.

Cassandra looked up to the top of the cliff. The orangey stone seemed to glow in the bright light of the sun as Dorian followed her gaze.

“Not again, can’t let them save me. I’m not worth it. Sorrow, so much sorrow, he thought we would die. He thinks we are dead,” said Cole, his good hand patted Dorian on the shoulder, offering comfort in spite of the dark things he had just said.

“Thank you Cole,” Dorian was unamused. “Cassandra, please, just tell me what’s happened here.”

“The Inquisitor was captured by the Venatori we came here to clean out of the area. They put a mage collar on him, the bastards. When we tried to break free of our captors their mage used magic to send us all over the cliff. I’m afraid we were all unconscious for quite some time, they have had a hell of a head start.”

Dorian wanted to scream. His amatus had been captured and here he was sleeping the day away. He had promised himself after what happened at Adamant that Lavellan was not to be out of his sight like that again.

“What are we lying around for then?” said Dorian, making a move to roll onto his feet.

“Wait!”

Cassandra put a hand on his shoulder to stop him but it was too late. Pain blossomed all down Dorian’s left side, from just under his armpit all the way down to his toes. For a moment the world went dark and it was a struggle just to breathe. For several long minutes he lay wheezing in the sand.

“Ah, that’s why we’re lying around,” Dorian said once he’d finally regained his breath.

“We can’t lie around for too much longer, we must get back to the camp and send a raven to Skyhold with the news.”

“How do you propose we get back if I can’t even roll over?” asked Dorian, who at this point would much prefer to remain lying down.

“I can help you back to camp. It’s not too far from here, but we have to go around the mountain. Cole, you will take point and make sure we do not encounter anyone we don’t wish to meet,” said Cassandra.

“I can do it,” said Cole, standing and vanishing in that curious way all rogues seemed to know.

Cassandra hauled Dorian upright none to gently, making him gasp and see stars once more. She drew his right arm across her shoulders and gently brought her arm around to grip his belt. Dorian knew as soon as he was upright that this would be a long trip. The ground swayed in front of him in a nauseating manner. Every footstep hurt. When he glanced down to give himself the once over and see just what was causing his side to hurt so badly there was nothing visible on the folds of his robe or down the leg of his pants. He could feel his leg swelling though, which meant that he had probably bounced off the rocks during their fall. Cassandra and Cole must have watched it happen, which was embarrassing. Falling down a cliff like that, Vivienne would be after him for not exhibiting grace in all situations.

Their journey was slow. Dorian needed to stop and wheeze every few paces and they had to make their way over rocks and down slippery slopes to keep a course for the Inquisition’s main camp. He noticed Cassandra’s energy flagging as well. The blood in her hair and on her face had dried to a rusted brown. She was also favouring her right leg as they moved over the rocks, but was keeping it from slowing her down by force of determination, and their Cassandra was nothing if not determined. They were interrupted by a loud roar echoing off the rock.

“That sounded like a high dragon,” said Cassandra, far too calmly in Dorian’s opinion.

“Let’s hope its far away then, shall we?” Dorian grunted in reply.

A high dragon would have been the icing on the shitty cake of a day they had been having. Fortunately, the dragon remained out of sight, no doubt nesting for the night somewhere in the distant dunes. It was nightfall when they saw the distant lights of the Inquisition camp appear before them. Stars blossomed in the sky as the last vestiges of a brilliant red sunset faded into indigo night. Dorian couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as they hobbled into the camp. They could get help, perhaps there was a healer here and he could be off to save his Lavellan on the morrow.

It wasn’t the case of course, they had some health potions, brewed up with elfroot, but no healer in the camp. Cassandra –with Cole interjecting in his roundabout way- told the story of what had happened at the Sunstop Mountains. The scouts and soldiers listened enraptured and afraid. Dorian knew why; the whole Inquisition raised Lavellan on an unwanted pedestal, making him seem unstoppable and godlike. To know he could be captured so easily under the guard of his most trusted followers must have come as a blow. When word got back to Skyhold the morale there would drop as well. It would not be a fun mess for the advisors to clean up. Dorian settled in for a long night with a bottle of health potion next to the fire. His body felt like one of Cassandra’s training dummies, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the damage. From here his spot at the fire he could see Cassandra and Scout Harding crafting a letter to send with a raven back to Skyhold. Dorian’s thoughts were with Lavellan though, wherever his love might be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nuva fen’harel pala masa sule’din - may the dread wolf fuck you in the ass until you die. Possibly my favourite insult from Project Elvhen.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian was pacing the camp. The raven had returned three days ago with a letter from Skyhold saying that Varric, Iron Bull, Blackwall, and Solas had set out to join them in the hunt, and that Leliana was sending her scouts to scour the land for any sign of the Inquisitor. Sera was going to put out an ear among her Red Jenny friends to see if there might be any word through that grapevine. It felt wrong to be sitting there while the rest of the inner circle was out there actually looking for Lavellan. Cassandra and Cole had told him what had happened at the top of the cliff after they realized that Dorian had no memory of their attack on the last Venatori camp. Dorian’s heart nearly broke when Cassandra told him that his amatus had been captured at knife point and forced into a mage collar. Those things were designed for torture. Then Cole had spoken of fear and the clicking of locks before Dorian had told him to stop.

For three days he had been left thinking about how Lavellan was locked up in a mage collar, being taken Maker knows where to be tortured for the mark and for information. Three days, or rather nights, they had spent in the Inquisition camp. Cassandra insisted they remain there until he was healed enough to go searching for his amatus, but clearly they had different views on how healed was enough.

“Cassandra I keep telling you, I am fine!” Dorian growled.

Cassandra looked up from where she was sharpening her sword. Fifth time today. Tonight. Whatever.

“I will believe that when I see you walking without a limp.”

“Oh come now, I might be limping yes, but I’m no longer in mortal danger, unlike Lavellan,” countered Dorian.

“We should be helping,” added Cole, who appeared sitting next to Cassandra in the space between one breath and the next.

“See, Cole thinks we should be going too,” Doran nodded decisively.

“I don’t want to set off and have you collapse on us before we get very far. Besides, we don’t even know which way they took him. We can deduce who they are taking him to, but the Inquisition does not know where the Venatori stronghold is.”

Dorian was ready to pull at his hair. Sure, that was part of the issue, but couldn’t she see that they needed to do something before the Inquisitor was lost to them forever? Who knows what would happen to him whenever he reached his destination. Corypheus or Calpernia would rip the mark from Lavellan however they could, and then they would torture him for information on the Inquisition, and then they would kill him, because if there was anything he knew about his countrymen, there was never any reason to spare an elf. They would kill him without hesitation, even if they could use him to barter with the Inquisition. Dorian knew it, and he was sure Cassandra did too. How could she possibly think sitting around on their asses doing nothing was going to help the situation.

“We must do something!” Dorian cried.

He collapsed into the sand in front of Cassandra. She put down her blade and whetstone. This close to her he could see how troubled her eyes were, even in the dark. One gloved hand came forward and grasped him by the shoulder.

“I wish we could, but it is more prudent to wait until you can comfortably move and we have more information. For now we just have to trust in the Inquisitor’s strength and the skill of Leliana’s spies. I believe the Maker will guide us to him.”

“I wish I could share that belief, but it feels like I have truly lost him this time. More so than those moments at Adamant before he fell out of the Fade. We should be out there looking,” Dorian concluded with a sweeping gesture out to the vast sea of sand.

Cassandra sighed. She followed his gaze out to the desert beyond. Her eyes too searched the dark horizon beyond the camp’s fires. She was worried for Lavellan as well. He tried to be so strong for them but she knew he was too young for all the responsibility they had pushed on him. This was something she didn’t have to say (or Cole to blurt out) for Dorian to know.

“If we don’t have word by tomorrow night we will set out before dawn. I can offer that. But for now drink another potion and rest,” Cassandra said in a weary voice.

“Thank you,” said Dorian.

“We can help!” said Cole excitedly.

Dorian gave Cole a tight-lipped smile. Lavellan was fond of the boy, but he still put Dorian a little on edge. He couldn’t deny that Cole’s heart was in the right place though. Everything that Cole did was out of a desire to help, from sweetening Leliana’s wine to leaving a wooden duck on Dorian’s pillow. He only scared Dorian because it was impossible to figure out how many of their secrets Cole knew, and who he might tell those secrets to. Dorian had rather a few he would like to stay hidden, and he was sure all of the inner circle had things they would rather keep locked away in memory.

Above the moons traced their lazy path through the sea of stars. They danced lazily through the sky towards the west. Every minute felt like an age to Dorian. His fingers tapped out a nervous beat in the sand, before Cole took up distracting him by telling him the inane thoughts of the soldiers around the camp. Things like who was thinking about their wife or child, or who was thinking about getting which other soldier to join them in their tent tonight. One particularly memorable thought that came tumbling out of Cole’s mouth was someone pondering whether or not the Iron Bull was as large in the trousers as the rumors said. Cole delivered the thought with such a straight face that Dorian burst out laughing. Even Cassandra cracked a smile. With moments like this Lavellan’s affection for Cole made a lot more sense, even if it still unsettled Dorian. It continued like that until they could see the first rays of dawn light over the Sunstop Mountains and down over the desert.

It was almost impossible to sleep through the day, both the heat and the anxiousness to get moving kept Dorian tossing and turning in his tent. Everything seemed to keep him awake: the whistle of the wind through the tent flaps, the soft crunch of the day watch’s boots, the distant cry of some desert bird. By the time dusk fell and the camp begin waking up Dorian had only slept a few restless hours. Despite the lack of sleep he was raring to go, bouncing with energy as they set about morning routines. Cassandra was scanning the darkening sky for ravens whenever she thought nobody was looking. She was as ready to charge out as Dorian. Cole, well, it’s always hard to tell what Cole is thinking from his face, as hidden beneath hair and hat as it was.

“Shall we?” said Dorian after they ate a quick breakfast.

“We can wait a bit longer,” said Cassandra, eyes flicking to the sky and back.

“What are you waiting for? The hand of the Maker to appear in the sky pointing the direction?”

“Not exactly,” Cassandra’s lips twitched.

Dorian resisted the urge to groan like an impatient child. He needed to go, he needed to find Lavellan before the Venatori could hurt him. Well, hurt him more than they already had. Dorian remembered what Cassandra had told him about the mage collar, and what Cole had said about the deep and paralyzing fear that had come off the Inquisitor in the moment they had been blasted off the top of the mountain. Just thinking about it made Dorian grit his teeth in anger.

“It will be all right,” a quiet voice next to him spoke. “You worry without knowing. It is a hurt you created and let grow. He will be all right. It is dark now, there was so much fear. Not again, I don’t want it to happen again. But he overcame it before, and this time he doesn’t have to.”

Cole offered his small smile to Dorian. It was not much comfort, but Dorian returned it nonetheless. Cole had faith that Lavellan would be ok and that was something. It was just the fact that it was a fact that Lavellan was alone and scared somewhere out there at the mercy of the Venatori. They had blood mages. Blood mages could do cruel things to a person, even change their hearts and emotions, as Dorian knew from the notes he found on the subject in his father’s study. The thought of his amatus being subject to spells like that made Dorian want to rip something in half. Preferably the men who had kidnapped him.

So lost in his anger Dorian didn’t notice Cassandra suddenly rising to her feet, eyes glued on distant movement in the dark sky. He didn’t notice the entire camp slowly joining Cassandra in staring at the night sky until Scout Harding gave a shout.

“Raven from the east!”

Dorian’s head shot up so fast he heard his neck crack. A raven! It could be carrying news of Lavellan. Dorian’s heart banged in his throat as the bird spiraled down into camp to alight on Scout Harding’s arm. She untied the letter from its leg and unrolled it, eyes scanning quickly over the words as Dorian and Cassandra crowded around the dwarf.

“It’s from Varric. They’ve found a trail in the Western Approach and will follow it. You should be able to catch them in a day or two if you hurry. Solas is following the Inquisitor’s presence in the Fade it sounds like. Creepy shit, but then again I don’t dream. Anyways, he says that they’re most likely headed towards the Emerald Graves. Maybe that’s where the Venatori have been hiding. I’ll send a raven to our Nightingale telling her that you’re all off to valiantly save our Inquisitor,” Harding finished with a wink.

They had found him. The others had found him. Dorian couldn’t help his grin. The next few minutes were a confused blur of activity, but all that mattered was that in those minutes he was somehow packed an on his horse and the camp was shrinking into the distance behind him. Dorian’s dainty bay mare sensed her rider’s impatience and practically bounced with energy, breaking forward into a canter for a few strides whenever Dorian’s grip on the reins relaxed even in the slightest. Not that Dorian minded his mare’s impatience, he was desperate to reach Lavellan before the Venatori reached their destination. The companions were quiet as they rode towards the horizon, all bent on the thought of rescuing their Inquisitor.

***

It was bright, too bright. Everything hurt. It hurt to just lie there, wherever he was. The ground was moving, and not in a pleasant way like the rocking of a ship, but Ëonwë was too exhausted to be sick. Was he curled up or was he lying flat? He couldn’t tell anymore. His body felt so distant, like he wasn’t really a part of it anymore. Around him was the sound of boots in the sand, whose boots Ëonwë didn’t know any more. They could be anyone. But it couldn’t be Dorian, he had been blown off the cliff with Cassandra and Cole. Were they the boots of the Venatori then? It seemed the most probable.

Voices edged their way into Ëonwë’s consciousness. What language was that? Tevene, but not sweet like he was used to. They were asking questions, they sounded worried. Maybe the others had come for him. Someone had gotten word back to Skyhold and they had come to rescue him. They should be looking for Dorian and the others instead, they would need to be found, they were too important to just leave at the bottom of some cliff in the middle of a desert.

It took Ëonwë a moment to realize that the ground had stopped moving. He only noticed it as the grating click of a key in a lock rang out. It was too loud, it hurt his ears. Couldn’t whoever it was be a little quieter about it. The sound of heavy boots was coming closer, Ëonwë was sure that he should be worried about it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Cold water being splashed on his face brought Ëonwë spluttering back into reality. In front of his face was a pair of weathered brown boots. He only saw them for a second as a moment after opening his eyes he slammed them shut again in pain. His whole body was burning. Fire danced over every inch of naked skin and it hurt like nothing else, even flames from a rage demon. Ëonwë gasped in pain, wishing that he could perform a healing spell, then remembered that it wouldn’t have mattered anyways with the mage collar heavy around his neck.

“Good. Not dead yet, Inquisitor?” the man, the mage if Ëonwë remembered correctly, said.

Ëonwë said nothing in return. The mage nudged his shoulder with his boot, and Ëonwë felt the sensitive skin split with the slight pressure. Ëonwë groaned and the mage tutted down at him.

“I heard that you were tougher than this. I mean, if a little sun and a collar are enough to take you down, the rest of the Inquisition almost isn’t worth the effort of crushing.”

Anger flared through Ëonwë. Sure, he wasn’t a very good leader, not like Iron Bull or Cullen or Cassandra, but the Inquisition was strong. Stronger than just him. Little did they know that Ëonwë himself was perhaps the weakest link. It would be quite a shock for them if they ever tried to take Skyhold. Ëonwë had every confidence that the Inquisition would prevail.

“You’re wrong,” Ëonwë’s voice came out as a whisper.

“What was that, Knife-ear?” said the mage as he crouched down in front of Ëonwë. The mage lifted Ëonwë’s head up painfully by his hair.

Ëonwë spat in his face.

“I said you’re wrong. The Inquisition will never fall.”

Ëonwë smirked even as his hair was released and his head bounced against the rough floor of the slave cage. The mage leapt back, wiping a hand over his face. When he turned back to Ëonwë, his face was red with anger.

“The Inquisition will never fall? I think we have already killed a few key players, or were your friends on the mountain nothing more than incompetent bodyguards?”

“ _Ar judalan ma_ ,” growled Ëonwë. Anger and sorrow burned hotter than his skin.

Ëonwë wanted to cry and rip out the mage’s throat with his bare hands. Dorian. His Dorian. Dorian who cried on him after Adamant then yelled at him about messing up his khol, Dorian who read him to sleep on nights where he couldn’t relax, Dorian who made every little trip or moment alone an adventure, Dorian, who this mage had pushed off the top of a mountain.

“Don’t forget,” whispered the mage, voice dangerously low, “you stabbed my amatus through the eye and I will not forget it.”

Ëonwë’s heart thudded to a stop. That was the one word of Tevene he could guess at the meaning. Every time Dorian said it his eyes would soften, the adoration in them almost too much for Ëonwë to bear. Dorian whispered it to him when they were alone in bed, called him by it when they were together, and every time Ëonwë knew it was a special word that Dorian would only use for him. That was how Ëonwë knew that he was completely and utterly screwed. Dread wolf take him; he should have picked another one to stab through the eye. Then again, the man who had leered at him through the bars of the cage couldn’t have been a very attentive lover if he was giving a captured elf the once over.

“Unfortunately I cannot kill you. Our Magistra will get the pleasure of breaking you first. Oh how I cannot wait to hear you screaming for mercy. We will be there in three days Inquisitor, try not to die on us before then,” the mage sneered as he turned strode back out.

The click of the lock was beginning to sound too familiar. The cage began rattling on again, though the sound of wheels in sand was gone, and the ride was rougher than Ëonwë last remembered. How long had he been out of it for? A day? Longer? Looking around his surroundings were no longer the vast empty stretches of desert he remembered, but instead of sand the landscape was rocky with tough shrubbery growing sparsely out of thin patches of dirt. South. They were going south. The only place in Thedas it seemed the Inquisition hadn’t searched was the southern Wilds. Now that he thought about it is was the perfect place for Corypheus to hide. Few people lived in the Wilds, no one would be there to see his armies, and the Wilds were never on anybody’s mind. He wished he could see the faces of the advisors when they found out. Chances were Ëonwë would be long dead by then, but it made him smile anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar judalan ma - I TRIED MY HAND AT ELVHEN, it's supposed to be 'i will kill you', emphasis on the i part.
> 
> OK SO, idk if y'all noticed, but this story is unbeta'd, the chapters are being written when I can around the hell that is the end of the semester (i get to go home a week today for holidays!). Therefore there are probably going to be lotsa mistakes and I do apologize for that. Also I might not get a chance to start working on the next chapter until I go home because life is hell. Seriously kids, please don't ever schedule all your 400lvl credits into one semester. Very dumb, 10/10 do not recommend. 
> 
> HOWEVER, I wanted to say thanks to all of you who have commented and left kudos and whatnot, because y'all are the reason I'm still writing this. You're awesome, I'm glad you're all in Dragon Age hell with me <3


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning dawned pale and bright. The first ray of sun through the trees slapped Ëonwë in the face, awaking him from an uneasy slumber. It was hard to sleep with the sunburns covering his body and the sun sickness that had settled in. Ëonwë found he no longer cared about his nakedness. At this point it would hurt more to wear clothes and have the fabric rub up against his oversensitive flesh. He shivered at the thought, and at the chill of the dawn. For the first time in a long time Ëonwë felt cold. The desert was behind them now and they were somewhere in the Orlesian Heartlands at Ëonwë’s best guess. There was no way they would be able to get to the Arbour Wilds in two days’ time. It was impossible, there were too many miles and Inquisition camps between them for the Venatori to be bringing him there. But the Wilds was the only logical place for them to be going. The Inquisition would have fount Corypheus’ stronghold by now if it were anywhere in the Dales or the Heartlands.  

The Venatori were still asleep. They seemed too at ease for having the leader of the Inquisition in their possession. Maybe their mage had set wards, but it was still risky to not have a pair of eyes watching through the night. Ëonwë knew that from years with the clan in The Free Marches. There you never knew what might happen upon your camp in the night. Ëonwë figured it was much the same here in Orlais, even with the empire achieving more stability after the Winter Palace shenanigans and Empress Celene safe you never knew who or what might be looking to take travelers unawares.

With a grunt and a groan, the Venatori began waking. Ëonwë watched with thirsty eyes as the one closest to him drank greedily from his waterskin. A thin trickle dribbled out of the side of the man’s mouth down over his unkempt beard and dripped onto his armour. Ëonwë’s eyes followed that small flow of water, wishing to only get a taste. Creators he was thirstier than he had ever been before in his short life. They were very good at only giving Ëonwë enough water to keep him alive, and no more. The result of that combined with the heat left large gaps in his memory and made his attention lapse as his mind wandered away without him being aware of it. How better to hide your secret headquarters than to make sure any prisoner taken there can’t remember the way. Ëonwë would have much preferred a blindfold to sunsickness, but seeing as he wasn’t in a position to be choosing his fate he was stuck with the hazy state of the sickness.

Ëonwë watched as the Venatori dug in their packs for dried fruit and meat for breakfast. His own stomach growled at the sight, even if it was just field rations. The closest man turned to him and grinned.

“Aw, is the Inquisitor hungry?” he teased.

Ëonwë remained silent.

The man held up a strip of dried fruit. Ëonwë didn’t recognize it, probably some exotic Tevinter fruit that had been living in the bottom of the man’s pack for six months, but it was still the most appetizing thing he had ever seen. His stomach growled again, but Ëonwë remained silent, eyes trained on the scrap of food.

“I’ll give it to you,” said the man, “if you beg for it.”

The man was holding it just out of reach on the other side of the bars of the cage. The bars were close enough together that Ëonwë could only fit a hand through with determination, no way would he be fast enough to grab the fruit from the man’s hand. So he remained curled up in the center of the cage, glaring.

“Come on, knife-ear. Beg.”

The man jiggled the fruit. The teasing edge was receding into something cruel. He wanted Ëonwë to beg for food. The man slammed a hand into the bars of the cage, rocking it.

“I said beg.”

The man’s companions looked up at the loud noise of his fist against the bars but quickly turned back to their task of slowly packing camp and finishing their breakfast.

“Beg for it.”

“Why?” Ëonwë’s voice sounded like he had the desert trapped within it.

“Because I said so,” said the man.

“Not much of a reason.”

“Listen here you,” the man began, but cut off when the mage rose from his place suddenly, looking west.

The man taunting Ëonwë turned around and asked a question in Tevene. The mage’s reply was anxious, and involved a lot of gesticulating out towards the west. Camp was packed quickly after that, the slave cage set rolling within moments of the mage first standing up. The man had dropped the piece of fruit in the rush and Ëonwë stared at it as he was rolled away. Such a waste.

For a while he stared up at the sky and the canopy of trees. The branches were straggly dark lines against the blue sky. As Ëonwë watched wisps of clouds joined together slowly. Lazily they grew together, the heart darkening as more joined it. A storm was brewing in the sky. Ëonwë had watched enough lightning storms form while he was the Templar’s prisoner. There was little else to do there. He’d learned his storm magic from watching those clouds, and the familiar tingle of electricity in the air was comfort from an old friend. It was energizing, invigorating. The crackle in the air was strength in his veins. For the first time in a long time Ëonwë uncurled himself and sat up, ignoring the stinging pain from the burns rubbing against the uneven wood.

They had travelled quite a bit from the looks of it. The pace had quickened too, the Venatori jogging alongside the cage as they rolled towards Creators knew where. There must be someone behind them then. The commotion in camp was probably someone setting off one of their wards. Was it someone from the Inquisition? Ëonwë dearly hoped so, for the other option was some other enemy coming for the Inquisitor and the power to control the rifts.

Looking ahead Ëonwë was confused. At first it seemed like the grey of the sky was sinking into the land ahead. Then it clicked. They were in the Heartlands, this must be Lake Celestine. The rivers connected to it would mean easy and fast transport into the Arbor Wilds. That’s how they planned to get there so fast. Take a ship down one of the rivers and no way could the Inquisition track them down before the Venatori got him to Calpernia and Corypheus.

As they drew closer Ëonwë could see the outline of a river ship anchored a little way off shore. No way would he be getting on that boat with them. At least, not without a fight. How would he do it though? He wasn’t strong enough to fight all of them off with the mage collar clamped tight around his neck. The slave cage couldn’t fit on the boat, but again without his magic he would be locked inside forever. Dorian could have come up with a plan, Ëonwë thought bitterly. The loss was still burned upon his heart, but he had to squash down those feelings if he wanted to escape before they got him in the boat.

Then Ëonwë got an idea. Granted it was stupid and probably about as good of an idea as hunting down Venatori for a vacation, but it was the only plan he had. He didn’t have to stop the Venatori to escape, he just had to slow them down enough for whoever was chasing them to catch up. The only problem was the fact that Ëonwë didn’t know who was following them, he just had to hope it was members of the Inquisition.

The track the Venatori were racing down was at the top of a hill. Ëonwë looked down the slope at rocks jutting out of the grass and dirt. Dangerous, but not enough so to abandon his plan. He’d rather collect bruises than be forced onto a boat with the Venatori. If he did end up on the boat he’d have to find a way to get himself over the side. Better to bury the mark in a riverbed than let it be used by Corypheus to destroy the world. But it was better still to come out of this alive. Someone needed to close the rifts, and since Ëonwë was the only one with the power to do so he had to stick around. With resolve he stood on shaky legs and ignoring the dizziness that made the world spin sickeningly, threw himself at the bars of the cage.

Boom!

The sky opened with rain and thunder the moment his body hit the bars. Ëonwë was to light to make the cage do anything more than teeter up on two wheels. It slammed back to all four as a burst of lightning crossed the sky, making everything around them jump out in the bright light. For a moment Ëonwë could see everything for miles. The boat in the distance, the shocked faces of the Venatori, a large horned shape charging at them from a distance. Ëonwë’s first thought was Iron Bull, but he had been at Skyhold, not out in the west. Probably some other qunari who was being paid well to capture the Inquisitor.

Boom!

The earth rumbled with the force of the sky. Ëonwë launched himself at the bars again, this time aiming higher, hoping putting his weight higher would mean it would tilt the cage further. To his luck, it did. The cage hovered on two wheels for only a moment. Ëonwë held his breath as the lightning flashed again, and then the cage went tumbling down down down the hill.

It went top over bottom, with Ëonwë trapped inside. He hit the bars of the cage with every roll, slamming against them again and again. It was all he could to to curl up as much as he could and protect his head. For the eternity he was falling end over end. When burned skin met metal it broke, as it had when the Venatori mage had kicked him. After what seemed like an age the cage came to a crashing halt, sliding in the mud a few feet on its side.

Ëonwë lay still a few moments, breathing heavily. The world came back into focus again. He could hear the distant sound of a quick battle, the creak of the cage’s wheels rolling in the air, the sound of the storm. Cold rain spattered his skin, mixing with warm blood. Maybe he should have rethought the plan, there was no way he was moving anytime soon. He drifted then, loosing awareness of the water on his skin and the sound of distant fighting, but never of the storm overhead. He yearned to play with the storm like he had in the clan, learning the art of lightning from the clouds and Keeper Deshanna. He blinked, and the next thing he knew the door was being ripped off its hinges. Slowly, Ëonwë looked up as much as he could and saw the figure of the quinari climbing through the empty space where the door had been. Lightning lit up the sky once more and this time Ëonwë could see the scars and the eye patch and those damn pants that were just so Iron Bull.

“Boss,” Iron Bull called softly.

Ëonwë tried to reply, but nothing came out, not even a moan or whimper. Thunder rumbled through the air again, distracting him with its roar. Next thing he knew he was being lifted gently into strong arms. Creators that hurt! A gasp left his mouth as Iron Bull brushed against his sensitive and bleeding skin. He heard the big man murmur something indistinguishable at him. But maybe that was just because the world was looking spinny again. Then, just over Bull’s shoulder, Ëonwë saw the last person he expected.

Dorian was standing there, drenched from the rain and splattered with mud, a concerned look on his face. Ëonwë wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not. If Dorian was there he must be a ghost, or a friendly face to lead him off into the great sleep. If so, it was nice to be able to see Dorian one last time. With a smile, Ëonwë closed his eyes, and slipped into oblivion.

***

Dorian and the others caught up with Iron Bull, Solas, Blackwall, and Varric by the end of their second day on the road. By then they were out of the desert and into the Orlesian Heartlands with its lovely trees and gorgeous wine country. At least it would have been gorgeous if they were there in the summer months and on a well earned vacation. However, they were not. They were on the hunt of the Venatori that had captured and collared Lavellan. They rode in silence, even Varric. There were no stories told on this road. Instead everyone’s thoughts remained focused on their Inquisitor.

They barely stopped that night. A quick stop to rest the horses, catch a few hours sleep, and eat a full meal before setting off once again. They trekked through the land, Iron Bull often leading Solas’ dainty grey mare as the mage slept, searching for their Inquisitor in the fade.

“We are close,” said Solas, as if he were no more excited than announcing the weather.

“Good,” replied Iron Bull.

Dorian heartily agreed. The sooner Lavellan was back safe in his arms the better. Who knew what special kind of torture they would come up with for the Inquisitor. The most any of them could hope for was that they would keep him intact enough for Calpernia or Corypheus to break. They just had to get to the Inquisitor before he got to them.

“They must be planning to take him by ship from Lake Celestine,” said Cassandra as they continued.

“Shit,” cursed Varric. “I don’t mean to nag but perhaps we should be moving a little faster if that’s the case.”

They all urged their mounts forward into a brisker pace. The sound of their horses hooves was soaked up by the dirt and grass into a low thunderous noise. He supposed that the need for quiet and stealth was gone now, the Venatori definitely knew they were coming at this point. It would now be a race to see if they could catch the Venatori before they reached the lake. Beneath him his mare’s neck and withers were becoming streaked with sweat, coarse grey hair curling with the dampness in the spots where the reins pressed against her neck. The other horses were much the same. Cassandra’s bay was beginning to foam under the leather of the girth, and Iron Bull’s massive black horse was puffing away as their chase intensified. Granted, the qunari was a bit much for any horse to cart around, and had as much grace on a horse’s back as a dragon trying to waltz.

As their pace quickened the sky grew darker. Dorian had noticed it at first, the blue of the sky occasionally being blotted out by a wisp of cloud, a moment of shadow as the sun slipped behind one like a child playing peek-a-boo. By the time the sun had crested the sky the clouds were thick in the air and Dorian could feel the energy of a storm building up around him. It made him shiver, elemental magic, especially electricity, was unpredictable and fierce. The flames he used were much more willing to do his bidding than the electric currents that ran through storm clouds.

It was part of what had drawn him to Lavellan in the first place. When Dorian had first joined up with the Inquisition he had been worried that he had thrown his lot in with the losing side. Their base of operations was destroyed by Corypheus and his dragon within an hour of Dorian knocking at the door with the warning. Not to mention at the forefront of this Inquisition was a scrawny little elf with a staff far bigger than himself and arms barely big enough to use it. Then Dorian had been witness to the very same elf single handedly taking on Corypheus without a single thought for his own safety. On their first mission out of Skyhold together Dorian had been impressed by the Inquisitor’s control over the most volatile element, watching Lavellan weave sparks through his long fingers while they sat at camp in the dark of night. Then once Dorian and Lavellan grew closer he was witness to all the times the elf threw open his balcony doors during a storm in order to stand out in the midst of it, despite what the wind and rain did to his reports. Thank the Maker storms were rare enough in Skyhold. Josephine nearly tore her hair out in frustration last time Lavellan had come to tell her he had ruined a stack of letters from very important people by playing with the lightning in a storm cloud.

As time wore on the sky grew darker not with the setting of the sun but with the darkening clouds. They were minutes away from the storm. They were all jogging beside their horses now, giving their mounts a break from the weight on their back, but still trying to maintain a fast pace in order to catch the Venatori. Dorian spared a chuckle and filed away a taunting remark for later at the sight of Varric jogging next to his horse, if it was not just a very tall pony. With Iron Bull and his giant black gelding trotting alongside, Varric and his mount looked ridiculous. But the hilarity of seeing Varric and his horse struggling to keep up on their shorter legs was not nearly as important as rescuing their Inquisitor.

“Scared, I don’t want to go on the boat. I don’t want to go with them.”

Cole spoke up from the back of the group, making everyone’s head turn to him.

“Excuse me?” said Cassandra.

“Inquisitor, Lavellan, Ëonwë, he doesn’t know which he is anymore. He is scared, helpless alone. Not alone, but they’re not friendly. Everyone who puts him in the cages isn’t friendly.”

“We must be getting close,” said Blackwall, trying to distract from the contents of Cole’s outburst.

The air grew heavy with the storm; Dorian knew the sky was about to open up. Rain would have the potential to wash away the tracks the party had been following. The rain would also create mud, slippery under their horses, forcing them to slow down.

But then, as they burst out of a copse of trees, they spotted the Venatori, and beyond them, Lake Celestine. The Venatori were running alongside the slave cage, their outlines almost blending in to the dark sky as they moved along the rise. Dorian gave a shout, but it was drowned out by Iron Bull’s roar.

The large qunari man charged ahead, dropping his reins and swinging his great battle axe over his head. Dorian too dropped his horse’s reins and dashing forwards. As he did the sky finally burst into light and thunder and rain. Lighting lit up the scene: Iron Bull bearing down upon the Venatori, the slave cage teetering on two wheels. Wait what?

It was almost forgotten as the Venatori mage nearly blasted him with a spell. Oh did Dorian have a score to settle with him. He set off a few spells of his own, intent on terrifying the man until someone ran his heart through. Next to him Solas used his own strange brand of magic to incapacitate for their warriors. It was going to be short work with the seven of them.

But then, as they could taste the victory over the Venatori when the unthinkable happened. The slave cage rocked again as another ripple of thunder boomed in their ears. For a moment all they could do was watch as it hung on two wheels over the edge of the rise. Dorian didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish as he sprinted across the muddy stretch between himself and the cage. His boots slipped in the wet grass and dirt as he scrambled up to the cage. But just as he reached out to grab it and do Maker knew what, the slave cage tipped a little too far, and it went tumbling down the rise with Lavellan inside.

Dorian could only watch in horror as his fist closed on empty air and the cage rolled down the hill. It bounced against rocks that jutted out of the grass. The sound it made was enough to outdo the thunder raging above them.

“Andraste’s tits!” Varric shouted behind Dorian.

Dorian could only stare numbly as the cage rolled once more before sliding to a halt in the mud. Something blew past him. Iron Bull. For being a big man with a braced up leg, he moved quickly down the slippery slope. He watched as Iron Bull slid to a stop next to the cage and wrenched off the door with no more effort than it took Dorian to pluck a grape off the vine. That spurred Dorian into action. He scrambled down the hill as fast as he could, not caring if the battle was won or not. He had to get to Lavellan.

He got there just as the Iron Bull stepped out of the cage with Lavellan cradled in his giant arms. The elf was dwarfed in those arms, looking no bigger than a child. Then Dorian noticed the Inquisitor was naked and burned and bleeding. Maker was he even breathing? Dorian was desperate to check, didn’t care if he got in Iron Bull’s personal space. His knees went weak with relief when he saw Lavellan’s golden eyes peering out at him. That relief was short lived. Lavellan’s eyes found Dorian, and the elf broke out the brightest, happiest smile Dorian had ever seen on his face. It was the most sincere expression Dorian had ever seen on Lavellan’s face. And then it was gone. Lavellan’s golden eyes unfocussed and rolled back, his body going completely limp in Iron Bull’s arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS HERE DON'T WORRY!  
> I'm making my way through final assignments and trying to build armour for my Hawke cosplay as I'm writing this. The last few hundred words were typed out one handed while i was waiting for glue to set on my gauntlet.


	8. Chapter 8

The world slid in and out of focus. There were flashes of colour and movement and most of all pain. Ëonwë would have been blissfully unconscious but for the pain. Had he been run over by an aravel? It certainly felt like it. Keeper Deshanna would laugh at him when he woke up properly. He’d probably provoked a halla by petting it too long again. They were soft and gentle, of course he’d want to pet them and be near them, he even had Ghilan’nian’s vallaslin decorating his face. There was a hand cupping his face, a familiar thumb tracing the sharpness of his cheekbones. They were warm, and a familiar scent of spices and burnt sugar washed over Ëonwë in a comforting wave. He wanted to open his eyes and see their face, but instead he was pulled under the blanket of darkness once more.

This time Ëonwë dreamed of the Templars. The cage rattled and shook as they navigated it down the road towards Kirkwall. Above the trees were gleaming in a wide array of colours from green to gold to red to purple as they kept going. Towns passed in the blink of an eye but it took an age to pass a single tree. Every time they did Ëonwë thought he saw the face of the elf whose grave it marked peering out at him. Knotted and twisted and utterly disappointed in him for being caught by the filthy shemlen jailers. Ëonwë was their first prisoner, but not their last. Along the way they picked up a human girl a few years older than Ëonwë. In the dream she didn’t have a face beneath her long chestnut hair. She huddled in the cage, frightened of the Dalish savage who she was meant to share the space with. She buried her face in her skirts and cried for her mama. Ëonwë listened as she cried in the night and looked away when the Templars dragged her out by her ankles. He was just glad it wasn’t him as he pressed hands to his ears and screwed his eyes shut. Having hands over his ears and eyes shut didn’t help. Ëonwë could still hear her screaming and still see her scrabbling at the dirt in hopes of escape, fingernails breaking and bleeding out into the earth. The girl’s screaming went on forever and ever. Or was it Ëonwë screaming?

His throat felt raw and he couldn’t open his eyes. Ëonwë felt too heavy to move. There was a hand in his though, gently stroking against the back of his knuckles. He wanted to cry out, move do something, but no he was trapped inside his body, trying to resist the alluring call of slumber and more bad dreams.

“Hush lad, just go back to sleep,” a man said an accented voice.

It was comforting, like his Babae. The man said nothing else, but the hand remained in Ëonwë’s and just knowing someone was there was enough to soothe him back into sleep.

This time he dreamed with the clan. Keeper Deshanna was there, telling her stories to the children. Ëonwë smiled as he watched them listen with wide eyes, waiting for the hero to save the day. It was strange, he couldn’t hear Deshanna’s voice. She sounded like wind in the willow branches, but her voice was missing from the dream. He could hear the children though, hear their gasps and giggles as they reacted to the story. The fire at the centre of camp was crackling merrily as well. The cook pot was being tended to by Anise and Mathras, the two had been making eyes at each other for weeks before Ëonwë left, and now they were here, stirring the pot and holding hands like old lovers. Whispers carried through the air as they leaned in close to each other over the fire. Ëonwë moved about the clan like a ghost. The grass was springy and soft beneath his bare feet like it was just on the edge of summer and flowers bloomed at the base of the trees circling camp. Aravels creaked in the breeze in discordant harmonies. Taking a deep breath it was all Ëonwë could do not to break down into tears. The smell of earth and grass and halla was so real, almost too real, and it was home. It was as if he never left. Clan Lavellan was as it had always been, a calm place of rest as they wandered with the seasons. The clan was small, only about twenty members when Ëonwë left. Though Ëonwë couldn’t see all of them from a scan of the camp. Maybe the hunters were out scouting.

He was joined in his wandering about the camp by Solas. It did not seem strange at all to see the other elf there in the middle of Clan Lavellan, as if the older elf had been part of the clan all along.

“Inquisitor, are you all right?” asked Solas.

Ëonwë wasn’t sure about the Inquisitor part but responded anyway.

“I’m home. I’m more than all right.”

“I am glad you can find peace here. I came here to see you before I left for Skyhold.”

“Where’s that?” Ëonwë knew the name, but as if from a story told to him long ago.

“It is where your new clan lives. You will join me there again soon, but I must go on ahead.”

Ëonwë nodded a reply as Solas headed off into the darkness between the trees. Night had fallen sometime during their conversation. In the distance was the sound of owls hooting and the first of the summer crickets come out to chirp their song to coax out the stars one by one.

His feet found themselves tracing the familiar path to his family’s aravel. Outside it was Mamae and Babae. They were sitting in the grass and Babae was making Mamae a flower crown out of the big daisies she liked and thick stems of elfroot. Ëonwë approached, and realized he could only hear his Mamae, talking to Babae like he was replying to her.

“Mamae?” Ëonwë asked, stumbling towards them. How long had it been since he’d had a hug from his parents?

She didn’t respond, just turned to answer a question from Babae. Ëonwë tried to get to them but ran into something instead. Looking down, Ëonwë wished he hadn’t.

She was standing there, in front of him, looking just the same as she had on that day nine years ago. Her reddish-brown hair was long and unkempt as always, bits of branch and leaves accessorizing like the ladies of the Orlesian court did their own hair with ribbons. The same star map of freckles ghosted over her face and arms. She stared up at him with sad purple eyes.

Ëonwë couldn’t breathe. She was there, looking like a healthy and wholesome eleven-year-old. But the longer he looked at her the more twisted she became. Every injury he had watched the Templars inflict appeared on her skin. There was blood at her temple, a red line down her arm that dripped to the grassy floor. Behind her their parents continued to happily make the flower crown. Ëonwë was no longer breathing, he was sure of it. He watched dark blood spill from her waist over her tunic and down her legs, but she was choking him with the strength of a larger creature. The last thing Ëonwë’s darkening vision saw was the blank stare of his sister and the red smile across her throat.

Ëonwë returned to consciousness desperate for breath and hands grasping at the sheets. His eyes felt like they were sealed with sand and his throat felt like glass had been shoved down it. There was a hand at his throat and Ëonwë felt the panic in him rising. Ghosts couldn’t follow him out of the fade, could they? The hands left his neck and he sensed whoever it was giving him some space.

“Come on Sunshine, open those pretty eyes of yours,” said a voice Ëonwë definitely recognized: Varric.

It was a heroic effort to peel his eyelids apart, but half of Thedas was calling him a hero and he did eventually blink his eyes open. The first thing he did was flinch away from the light. The second time Ëonwë dared look about he realized he was in a low cot in a tent. One of the Inquisition’s main camps then. Beside him knelt Varric, and beyond in the farthest corner of the tent a sheaf of paper with the pages covered in ink. How long had the dwarf been sitting there writing. If it was the new Swords and Shields then Cassandra would be very pleased. Ëonwë hoped it wasn’t a record of him getting captured. How dignified for the leader of the Inquisition. He bet Leliana and Josephine were having a field day trying to restore the reputation of the Inquisitor.

“Hey, can you look at me for a quick second,” Varric’s voice drew Ëonwë’s attention back up to his face.

The first thing Ëonwë noticed were the deep purple bruises smeared under Varric’s eyes. Eyes that were looking down at him with concern.

“You with me now?” Varric asked gently.

Ëonwë opened his mouth to try and speak but all that came out was a harsh croaking sound. Instead he opted to simply nod awkwardly with his head pressed into the pillow. Varric smiled at him. Tension dropped from his frame as he leaned over Ëonwë, coming past the personal bubble to offer comfort. A warm hand found its way to rest just above Ëonwë’s on his wrist.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up, but someone had to try and get that damn thing off your neck. Its far too tight I don’t know how they expected anyone to be able to breathe while wearing that.”

Ëonwë hadn’t realized the mage collar was still in place around his neck. The biting metal had been worn so long Ëonwë couldn’t remember what it felt like to not have it on. Neither could he remember the sensation of magic humming beneath his skin. Now that the world was coming into sharper focus Ëonwë realized he hurt pretty much everywhere, and that he was apparently covered in bandages. There was only one thing on his mind though.

“Wa-water?” Ëonwë’s voice was hoarse and low when he spoke.

Varric cringed at the sound of his voice, but made no move to fetch a cup of water.

“We have to get the collar off first, or you might choke on it.”

Ëonwë nodded his understanding and Varric began his work with two slender picks that seemed to just appear between his fingers like magic. The dwarf leaned down into his personal space again and Ëonwë was left to awkwardly stare at the roof of the tent while Varric worked his magic.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke and I ended up stranded on the Wounded Coast overnight?”

Ëonwë shook his head gently, aware of his aches and Varric trying to work.

“Really? Oh man it was hilarious. Hawke had been asked to hunt down a group of Tal-Vashoth hiding out somewhere on the coast, standard job, and Hawke always has liked venting her frustration by hitting things with her sword. Anyway, we were wandering through the coast, finding a few here and there, and then Hawke spies something shiny out on the tiniest spit of land. Andraste’s lily-white ass the woman could never resist anything shiny. So she goes out there, clambering over the rocks. They’re all covered in seaweed and the most disgusting sea garbage you can imagine. Well she gets there, and dammit it’s a chest and she needs me to open it. I say fine and crawl on out there. Only when I’m trying to make my way across my boots get wet.”

Varric pauses to switch out his lockpicks and breathe.

“I bet you can guess what happens next. So we’re out there, and we left Anders and Fenris alone together on shore, which was probably our first mistake if we’re being honest. Anyway the damn chest has this ancient lock that’s rusted all to hell. I settle in for the long haul with Hawke perched on my shoulder the whole time. When I finally get the damn thing open guess what we found inside?”

Ëonwë shrugged, not like he could guess much with his throat being drier than one of Solas’ lectures on the fade.

“We found absolutely nothing! Whatever had been in there had been eaten away by the sea a long time ago. We turn to go back to shore but by then the tide had come in so far that we wouldn’t have been able to make it back without swimming, and Hawke was into full plate at the time, no way she was getting that back if swimming was on the agenda. So instead she just lies down and goes to sleep quick as you please! Of course Broody thought she’d been poisoned or something and went insane with pacing and shouting from the shore all night, keeping Blondy and I awake all damn night. Of course Hawke slept right through it. Can’t wake that woman for anything. Aha!”

The lock clicked open at last. Varric leaned away from Ëonwë and flexed his cramped fingers. The mage collar fell open and the rush of magic had Ëonwë seeing stars. It was like being punched in the gut with all the magic flowing into him. At last he felt whole after being empty for so long.

“Well that put colour back into your cheeks.”

“Thank you,” Ëonwë gasped out.

“Come on, lets get you up and get you that water, and Maker knows you need a healer,” said Varric.

Of course his idea of getting up was propping up Ëonwë on pillows, not helping him out of the cot and letting him wander the camp. Once Varric had situated Ëonwë as he liked and pressed a cup of water into his hands.

“What happened? Did you get the Venatori?” asked Ëonwë.

“We showed up right as you decided to roll that cage down a hill.”

“I admit it wasn’t one of my better ideas,” Ëonwë gave Varric a wry grin.

“You mean it was on purpose? Dammit Sunshine, I didn’t think you were that crazy,” Varric laughed.

“As long as you write something a little more heroic in your book I think a little crazy is okay.”

“If you say so. As for the Venatori, we caught one, killed the rest. Chuckles and the Hero are carting him back to Skyhold’s dungeons. They went on a head since it might take us a while to get back.”

Varric gave Ëonwë a once over, no doubt taking stock of bandages and bruises. They would have a slow trip back to Skyhold while Ëonwë was healing. Varric sighed and stood up, heading for the entrance to the tent.

“Anyway, there’s some people who are dying to see you all awake,” Varric winked and exited the tent.

Ëonwë was left alone to take stock of his injuries. Looking down his arms were covered in bandages. He could feel them wound around his legs and chest as well, probably trapping a healing salve against his skin for the burns. Ëonwë’s skin hurt and itched uncomfortably. All he wanted was to be able to peel it off and be dunked in a soothing bath. His head hurt as well, and reaching up he found a bandage wrapped around it underneath his golden hair. He figured he’d banged it against the side of the cage when he was tumbling down the hill. Varric was right, the plan was insane, the fact that it worked was a miracle in itself.

Ëonwë’s focus on his body was broken as the tent flaps blew open with the storming entrance of a Tevinter on a mission. Dorian came storming through the tent’s entrance and gathered Ëonwë into a tight hug. The feel  of strong warm arms around him did not make Ëonwë feel safe or comforted. The last time he had seen Dorian the man had been pushed off of a very high cliff to almost certain death. There was the very high possibility that this was some sort of demon trying to attack him in his weakened state. Bedding was thrown aside as Ëonwë struggled out of the hug and off the bed, fingers reaching for a staff that wasn’t there.

“Amatus, whats wrong?” it spoke with Dorian’s voice and oh how Ëonwë had hoped to hear that voice again.

“Back, Demon,” growled Ëonwë.

“Demon? I’m no demon, come now,” it said in a low soothing voice, hands out in front like Ëonwë was a wild beast.

The thing wearing Dorian’s face took a step forward and Ëonwë let his newly refound magic crackle over his knuckles in tiny bolts of lightning.

“Get away from me,” Ëonwë spat, but again the thing advanced. “I said get away!”

The demon raised its hands in surrender and backed away.

“What is going on in here?”

Cassandra burst into the tent with her sword drawn. Another demon taking a friends face and a tent that was overcrowded. The tent brushed the tops of the demon’s heads and there was less than three feet of room between Ëonwë and the one with Dorian’s face. What evil part of the fade was this? Ëonwë grit his teeth and gathered a bolt of electricity, ignoring the fresh burning in his palms.

He raised his arms to release the lightning when strong arms clamped down over his from behind.

“They’re here to help you. Please, they just want to help. You’re awake, there are no demons,” Cole’s steady voice whispered into Ëonwë’s ear.

Cole, Cole had fallen too. But even though he was more human he was still a spirit and would still have most likely survived. Perhaps Cole was speaking the truth. Ëonwë’s knees went weak and he slumped against Cole, the gentle boy leading his fall to the ground.

“Inquisitor!”

“Amatus!”

Both Dorian and Cassandra cried out at the same time.

“He’s just tired. Relief, they’re alive, not dead not smashed on a rock, but here. He is happy,” said Cole.

Ëonwë nodded along with Cole’s words as he let himself believe that the humans in front of him really were here and alive. When Cole relaxed his own grip Ëonwë reached forward with outstretched arms towards Dorian. Not needing any more prompting than that Dorian pulled him upright and helped him back to the bed.

“I am sorry,” said Ëonwë as Dorian lowered him onto the pillows.

“It is all right, Inquisitor. I might have done the same if I was in your position,” said Cassandra, offering him one of her small smiles.

Ëonwë returned it and lay back against the pillows as Dorian tucked him in with the thin blanket he had thrown aside earlier. The other mage sat on the edge of the cot and took one of Ëonwë’s bandaged hands in his own.

“I think I will take my leave, Inquisitor. It is good to see you on the mend,” said Cassandra, backing out of the tent while looking anywhere but at the two of them.

“I’ll see you later,” replied Ëonwë.

With that she was gone. The tent was a lot emptier without everyone in it, for Cole had left sometime during Ëonwë’s short trip to the cot. This time in the silence Ëonwë was aware of the sounds of camp outside the tent. There was the distant rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against a blade, the muffled chatter of the soldiers, the cawing of ravens, and boots in the dirt. All of the sounds that Ëonwë had taken to mean home and safety in the Inquisition. He settled a little deeper into the pillows, taking in the lines of Dorian’s face.

“I thought you were dead,” said Ëonwë quietly.

“Oh no, I’m far to handsome to die like that,” Dorian grinned.

“Of course,” Ëonwë giggled, then frowned as the bandages constricted painfully across his burned chest at the action.

“You almost died you know, very ungrateful to those of us mounting a daring rescue.”

Dorian’s dark hand gripped tighter around Ëonwë’s pale one. One of the ravens cawed loudly across the camp.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But this time you were trapped and I couldn’t do anything about it. It was worse than Adamant. At least then I knew I couldn’t rip apart the fade to save you, but this, it was humans. My countrymen.”

“And you came and rescued me.”

“Actually the Iron Bull did most of the rescuing. He was the one who got you out of that damned cage.”

Ëonwë’s heart stuttered in its rhythm. The cage. He had almost managed to block the cage from his mind. All that fear came crashing back into him, all those memories.

“Lavellan?” asked Dorian, “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not.”

Dorian pressed a gentle kiss against Ëonwë’s temple, just a brush of lips over the bandage on his head.

“For as long as you need me, I am here, Amatus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be the last chapter, but instead it ended up being a very long filler. Ok, so next chapter will be the last. I think.


	9. Chapter 9

Getting ready to head back to Skyhold was a slow process. Ëonwë had enough of lying around in bed by the second day, even though moving hurt. His healing skin felt too tight and itched uncomfortably when he sat still, and burned and ripped when he moved. Dorian was trying his best to keep him confined to the bed, but soon ran out of simple entertaining stories that wouldn’t work up Ëonwë into full debate mode. Eventually Dorian switched with Cassandra, who ended up telling Ëonwë the strange plots of her romance novels until Varric not so gently took over the job of keeping the Inquisitor occupied. The dwarf told so many stories about the Champion’s time in Kirkwall they couldn’t all possibly be true. Ëonwë made a mental note to ask Hawke if her friend Aveline had really tried to propose to her now husband with a dowry goat. If only he could get back to Kirkwall and ask her, but no, here he was, stuck in a bed with a bowl of thin broth and a hovering Dorian. The man had hardly let Ëonwë out of his sight. He practically slept on the ground next to the bed and frankly, Ëonwë was glad that Dorian cared enough to be present (he still wondered if he would wake up and Dorian would truly be dead at the bottom of a cliff), but the constant company was wearying. Especially when he was being treated like glass now nearly a week after they had rescued him.

“I think by now I am well enough to ride. We should start heading to Skyhold as soon as possible,” said Ëonwë for what seemed the thousandth time.

The general excuse Cassandra and Dorian had been making was that they didn’t have a horse for Ëonwë. Varric at least was honest and told him that everyone was still worried. Apparently getting captured by the Venatori was enough to make everyone turn into mother hens. Except for the Iron Bull that was. The qunari had only visited him a few times in his tent. The visits were short and quiet, and Iron Bull didn’t press his usual motherly affections on him. These rare visits only happened once Dorian had retired to his own tent or Cole dragged him away to eat a proper meal. The Iron Bull had just asked how Ëonwë was doing (honestly? Not great) and that he should talk to someone “and probably should make it the ‘Vint” soon. “Shit like that eats at you Boss”. Ëonwë already knew that for a fact, but he didn’t want to tell his story while also being confined, even if just to a bed. For another two days he stewed in his sheets, restless and fidgeting. The others noticed the change in his disposition as well as his thoughts and his moods darkened.

Ëonwë was up at dawn the morning they were to begin the trek to Skyhold. He leaped out of his cot and packed in record time. Not that there was a lot for him to pack up since his pack had been lost with his capture. Frowning, Ëonwë carried the saddlebags out into an impressive red sunrise. Cassandra was also up, saddlebags neatly packed and at the ready next to her bay mare. The warrior was whispering to her horse as she fed it the core of the apple she had made her breakfast. Ëonwë nodded at her as he gently placed his own tiny pack near to the small horse a scout had procured for him to use from a nearby village. A sad thing it was, swaybacked and covered in the white scars of an old working horse. Not to mention the ridiculously thick mane that grew straight upwards, giving the horse the look of an overgrown pony. Ëonwë would be glad to see his hart again on his return. He ran a hand over its legs and picked up its feet, making sure that the beast was sound and had no rocks in its hooves. Not that Ëonwë didn’t trust the scout to get a horse that would be up to the job, but something about the action reminded him of being home and helping with the clan’s halla. It was comforting in its own way, being in the low dawn with the animals, and his only human companion being one who enjoyed a friendly silence.

“We’ll leave once everyone is up and had a good meal,” said Cassandra. So much for enjoying the friendly silence.

“Alright.”

“Inquisitor, if I may, it’s not your fault you got captured. None of us saw the rogue sneaking up on you. In fact, I feel I must apologize for not protecting you,” said Cassandra, approaching Ëonwë and taking his hands, her eyes staring into his own in an attempt to convey her earnestness.

Ëonwë was taken aback. Her fault? She didn’t have to protect him. She didn’t have to do anything. In fact, Ëonwë should be apologizing to her for the whole thing.

“Really, I should be the one apologizing Cassandra. After all, you were hurt because they wanted to capture me. _Ir abelas, lovro’mae,_ Cassandra,” Ëonwë said and gave her a slight bow.

Cassandra was taken aback at the apology, her mouth hanging open as she tried to think of something to say in return. She was about to say something when another voice called out through the misty morning air.

“I never thought I’d see our Lady Seeker at a loss for words. I should record this momentous occasion in my next book.”

Varric came striding towards them with his saddlebags flung over one shoulder and Bianca resting over the other. In his hand was a bowl of the watery gruel that served as the camp’s breakfast fare. No wonder Cassandra had gone for the apple. At least the gruel was warm enough to shake off the night’s chill. Both Ëonwë and Cassandra stared as Varric managed to somehow eat his bowl and begin saddling horse at the same time.

Eventually the Iron Bull joined them, stretching out his muscles and saddling up with little fanfare but many meaningful glances at Ëonwë. Not that he needed reminding that he had said he would talk soon, just not here in the Inquisition camp with so many ears to potentially listen in.

Dorian was the last to join them, with hair and kohl perfectly done and his robes immaculate. He had been in high spirits since Ëonwë was announced on the mend, even if the elf in question had been growing more and more grumpy as days went by. Usually Dorian was a complainer in the morning, but today he was more than happy to be up with the sun and ready to go by the time the rest of the camp was beginning their day. Ëonwë smiled as his elf ears caught Dorian humming a tune quietly as he tacked up and made ready to leave. It was a song Ëonwë didn’t recognize, perhaps something from Tevinter. He would get Dorian to teach him the song later. For now Ëonwë didn’t feel much like singing.

As much as Ëonwë wanted to ride as far as possible in the day, his muscles and injuries required that they take frequent stops where he had to sit down on a log or stump and recover or reapply salve and bandages to the fading burns. With each change of bandages came a small phial of health potion, usually pressed into his hand by Dorian or Cassandra. Ëonwë did his best to pinch his nose as swallow, but he swore that whatever was in those particular phials was ten times more potent in taste than a normal health potion.

By the time they reached a clearing to camp in for the evening Ëonwë was glad to be off his horse, whose gait was less than gentle. He was quite happy to flop onto the ground and lie back in the grass and weeds. He felt a little guilty when the Iron Bull collected his horse’s reins and took care of unsaddling and rubbing down the poor creature, but only a very little. He must have drifted to sleep, because the next thing he knew he was being gently poked awake by Dorian for supper. A fire had been built and their cook pot was bubbling merrily away with the smells of a rabbit stew. Varric must have gone hunting.

Dinner itself was a relatively quiet affair. Iron Bull told a story about the chargers that involved chickens and a very large cake that Krem ended up wearing, but the laughter of the group was subdued. Cole was the only one listening with rapt attention, practically sitting at Bull’s feet so he could better hear the story and his own bowl of stew left forgotten and cooling on the grass next to him.  When supper was done they all remained sitting around the fire as if waiting for something. Ëonwë could feel the tension growing, as if they were all expecting him to speak. It grew and grew, and finally, Ëonwë couldn’t take it anymore.

“Did I ever tell you I had a sister?” he began, trying to keep his voice light and unshaking.

“I wasn’t aware,” said Dorian, and the Iron Bull nodded in agreement.

“A sister? She as sunny as you are?” said Varric, grinning.

“No, we were always opposites. We were _taronen_ , twins, but opposite in looks. And personality. She was always the fierce one, she wanted to be a warrior after she saw some knights parading down a road.”

“What was her name?” asked Cassandra gently.

“Wren,” it felt strange saying her name after so long. Mamae and Babae had tried to do their best to not let old grief become new when Ëonwë had returned and so had let Wren’s memory stay buried.

“Wren, that’s a pretty name,” said Iron Bull. “What happened to her?”

And that was the whole issue wasn’t it. What happened to Wren was the tipping point of Ëonwë’s life. The moment where he had fallen off his destined path for one darker. But there was a simple answer to the question of what had happened to his sister.

“She died.”

“Come on Sunshine, I know there’s more to the story than that,” said Varric, before being punched in the arm by Cassandra.

“It hurts; it was so long ago but it hurts. Be nice,” said Cole, now leaning against the Iron Bull’s legs.

 “When we were eleven we strayed from the camp. We were playing some game, I don’t remember what but we ended up far from the clan. At the time we were travelling near to Kirkwall, up by the Sundermount. Our clan had business of some kind with another that had made a home on the mountain. We eventually found the main road and began to make our way on it, hoping to come across someone to help point us in the right direction to the mountain when we heard the creaking of wheels in the distance.”

Just remembering the sound of the distant wheels on the dirt road made Ëonwë flinch. He wished he didn’t have to tell the story, but since he had started he couldn’t just stop there.

“We thought it might be a caravan headed to Kirkwall so we ran up the road to meet it. It wasn’t a caravan. It was Templars with a cage of mages, bound and being forced to go to the Gallows.”

Someone growled. Probably Iron Bull, but Ëonwë was staring at his hands. He wished he had thought to sit next to Dorian, as the mage’s strength at his side would have been a great help, but alas he was sitting across the fire.

“Sunshine, you’re not painting a pretty picture,” said Varric.

“I know,” replied Ëonwë. “ It’s not a pretty story. The Templars came upon us, and we had been warned about the Templars, what with me having magic and all. Still we asked for directions. Instead they chose to grab Wren with the intention of selling her to slavers. She was a pretty kid after all, big purple eyes as wide as the sky and long thick hair. Too pretty, as Mamae used to say. I didn’t have a lot of control over my magic then, and in my anger and fear I set one of the Templars on fire. Not badly of course, but I had performed magic in front of them. They abandoned her for me, grabbed me quick and stuck a mage collar on me before I could blink. And Wren, oh she was so brave and so foolish. So foolish.”

Ëonwë had to stop and take a settling breath as his voice grew thick with emotion and his eyes filled with tears. Nine years later and it was still hard to talk about. He’d never gotten to properly mourn his sister. Not in the Gallows and not in his return. Perhaps he could plant another tree for her in Skyhold. A proper tree that changed colours and leaves because Wren had loved the colours of autumn. As Ëonwë settled his emotions his companions remained still and silent, fully engaged with the story and dreading what would happen next.

“Wren tried to fight them off. A little elf with a stick against grown men with armour and swords. They were cruel about it, torturing her before cutting her throat and leaving her in the road. I wish with all my heart she had turned and run. I’m not worth that kind of sacrifice. Every time they beat her down she just got up and tried again until she couldn’t, then cursed them until they killed her. They then took me to the Gallows. I was there for five long, terrifying years.”

Ëonwë finished the story staring at his lap and blinking away the tears. For a long moment the camp was silent except for the crackling of the logs in the fire. Then suddenly there were warm arms around him and the brim of a hat squished against his head. Cole was giving Ëonwë the biggest hug of his life. For a moment Ëonwë didn’t know what to do with himself, then hugged Cole back just as fiercely. He needed it, and left a large wet spot in Cole’s shirt with his tears. Surprisingly, Cole was quiet throughout the long minutes of the hug and remained silent as Ëonwë pulled away. Dorian had crossed to sit next to Ëonwë sometime during his breakdown and Ëonwë gladly leaned into the older man for comfort.

“So that’s why you were so scared,” said Dorian. At Ëonwë’s curious look he simply supplemented with: “Cole.”

“It kept reminding me of being so helpless and afraid, and then I thought you had died, like she did, and I couldn’t deal with that thought.”

Dorian said nothing but brought a hand up to stroke through Ëonwë’s long golden hair.

“I’m curious,” began Varric, “how did you escape the Gallows? I spent most of my life in Kirkwall and it was rare to hear of mages escaping under Knight Commander Meredith.”

Ëonwë grinned wryly at that. It would be Varric who asked, and he would probably enjoy the answer quite a bit.

“I actually have Hawke to thank for that.”

“Really?” said Varric with disbelief.

“Yes, the whole business with the Arishok at the Viscount’s Keep was enough to draw Templar attention, and with a lesser amount of guards I was able to slip out of the Gallows. And since the whole city was on fire, nobody noticed an elf slipping through the gates.”

“Well, glad to be of service,” joked the dwarf.

Ëonwë gave him a small smile. He was exhausted after telling the story and just wanted to lie alone in bed. Also that was the most he had talked at once since he had left his clan. It didn’t escape his notice that Cassandra and the Iron Bull were being very quiet, and he didn’t want to be around them when they let out their emotions. With no announcement he stood and made for the nearest tent, not caring if it was the one set up for him or not.

Turns out he had made a lucky guess and ended up in the right tent, judging by the sight of Dorian’s things placed on one of the bedrolls. Slipping under the covers was the best feeling in the world. It shut out everything but Ëonwë, letting him have a protective cocoon of thin blankets between him and the world. Outside the tent he could hear the murmurings of his companions, but he didn’t care. Instead he let himself drift to the sighs of wind in the branches, trying to empty his thoughts before drifting off. It must have worked as he was jolted awake when Dorian entered the tent.

“Amatus?” called Dorian softly.

“Yes?”

“Ah you are still awake.”

“I wasn’t actually, but I am now.”

Dorian should have chuckled at that, but instead remained silent. A somber atmosphere filled the tent as Ëonwë figured the mage was sorting out what to say to him. Dorian took a step closer and sat down on his own bedroll. Close enough to touch, but not close enough for any accidental or unwanted contact.

“I wanted to say I am so very sorry for your loss. And for not asking about your family. I fear I have been rather selfish in this relationship, my dear Lavellan,” said Dorian in his most serious voice.

Ëonwë shook his head.

“It is not your fault. I don’t talk about myself very much. However, if I may ask, I would like for you to call me by my name. My true name. It is Ëonwë.”

“Ëonwë,” said Dorian, letting the taste of it wash over his lips in the darkness. “Does that mean anything in elvhen?”

“It does, and promise you won’t laugh.”

“Never.”

“It means herald. A God’s herald.”

There was a silence where Dorian managed to keep a grip on his laughter.

“You mean to tell me, that your name, that your mother and father gave you, was to be the herald of a god?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” Ëonwë could feel the blush uncomfortably rising in his cheeks and ears.

“And you said you don’t believe in the Maker. You have to tell Cassandra and that spymaster of yours, they might just crown you Divine and be done with it.”

“Shut up,” said Ëonwë, pushing Dorian over.

Dorian allowed himself to fall back, then tugged Ëonwë down and trapped him in an embrace. It felt nice to just be held, Dorian tracing light circles up and down Ëonwë’s spine. Ëonwë’s heart still hurt after all that he had revealed today, but perhaps now he could begin to heal. As long as no one else collared and forced him into one of those cages everything would be all right. Lying there in Dorian’s arms it felt like the world was righting itself and Ëonwë let himself slip off to sleep with a smile on his face.

Outside the tent Cole nodded to himself and stood. The hurt was healing and the stars were shining. For this moment all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's the last chapter of Shadows Lingering Close Behind! Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! 
> 
> The best present of all would be you letting me know what you thought, or whether you'd like to see more adventures of Ëonwë Lavellan and Dorian. This story was the culmination of my thoughts on the two of them, but if anyone wanted more I am always willing to create more for you.
> 
> I hope all the Tolkien fans like Ëonwë as the name. I just had to name my Inquisitor such on the second playthrough because it fits so well for the Herald of Andraste.


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